


Fallout: A Cape May Ballad

by emdashesnsemicolons



Series: Fallout: The Choose Your Romance Project [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Puns, By PoC about PoC, Capital Wasteland, Catharsis, Extends Past Canon Ending, F/M, Female Character of Color, Five Stages of Grief, Friends to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Healing, Height Differences, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Loss of Trust, Melodrama, Morally Ambiguous Character, Not Beta Read, Older Woman/Younger Man, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past John Hancock/Robert Joseph MacCready, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Revenge, Short!MacCready, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Whump, grieving process, so many puns, so much whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-11-08 16:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emdashesnsemicolons/pseuds/emdashesnsemicolons
Summary: Mistakes. Regret. Betrayal. Redemption. When Julia Vidal hired him that night at The Third Rail, MacCready thought he'd finally found a way to provide for Duncan while looking for the cure. But he has started to think it's becoming a job even a mercenary like him can't handle.





	1. Constant Craving

MacCready found the dim red lighting in the so-called VIP room of the Third Rail relaxing. Or maybe it was the quiet, or being away from the drifters' accusatory stares. He sank into the plush armchair. Magnolia's velvet voice was seeping through the open door. Another song about longing. From the way she uttered each climbing note, and the way it made the fine hairs on his arms stand, he could tell each song was some sort of autobiography. He didn't mind; he knew a thing or two about wanting something desperately and having it be out of reach.

Striking a match ablaze, he lit his cigarette and took a drag. Bitter and earth and sweetness. Two sets of footsteps. Hurried. Determined. He exhaled all smoke and weariness. Should've known Winlock and Barnes would show to fuck up his mood.

“Should we take this outside?” he asked, extinguishing the match between his fingertips.

The neanderthal with the fucked-up haircut—Winlock, was it? He got them confused a lot. Must have been the forehead tattoos. Always a sign of good judgment—stepped up to him first, while Barnes paced around. “Can't say I'm surprised to find you in a dump like this, MacCready.”

“I was wondering how long it would take you bloodhounds to track me down.” He counted on his fingers, just to piss them off. “Let's see...It's been almost three months. Don't tell me you're getting rusty.”

Barnes' nostrils twitched. Got him. Always the silent partner, but the more reactive of the two.

“So, I'll ask you again: Should we take this outside?”

“It ain't like that,” Winlock said. “I'm just here to deliver a message.”

He nearly bit straight through his cigarette. All these attempts at intimidating him were getting a little fucking old just about now. First the rocks through the window, with notes attached: classic. Then spreading rumors of his reputation with the Gunners so that almost no one would hire him: fucking  _nice. _ And now this. “In case you forgot,” he said, stubbing his cigarette into the ashtray, “I left the Gunners for good.”

“Yeah. I heard. But you're still taking jobs in the Commonwealth. That isn't going to work for us.”

“I don't take orders from you,” he snapped and, _shit, _he regretted it. He took a deep breath. “Not anymore. So why don't you take your girlfriend and walk out of here while you still can?”

“What?” Barnes barked, squeezing his hands into fists. _Reactive._ “Winlock, tell me we don't have to listen to this shit.”

“Listen up, MacCready.” He breached the space between them, looking down at him. MacCready hated when they did that. It was a cheap shot. “The only reason we haven't filled your body full of bullets is that we don't want a war with Goodneighbor. See, we respect boundaries.” And yet he knew for a fact Winlock had eaten Cram for dinner. Boundaries, his ass. “We know how to play the game. It's something you never learned.” He didn't say “kid,” but it was implied.

He grinned at them. “Glad to have disappointed you.”

“You can play the tough guy all you want. But if we hear you're still operating inside Gunner territory, all bets are off. You got that?”

MacCready scrubbed at his face, feigning the boredom on his face to mask the anxiety and frustration screaming to rip his ribcage apart. “You finished?”

Winlock pursed his thin, crusty lips. “Yeah. We're finished.” He nodded at Barnes and they'd both turned to leave just as another person was wandering into the back room. Great. Someone else to piss him off. Five minutes of peace and quiet. Was that so motherfucking much to ask? “Watch it,  _bitch.”_

He looked up from his now-empty cigarette carton, the last one pinched between his lips. The figure of a woman stood at the door, looking back at Winlock and Barnes' retreating figures, a closed fist pressing against the soft flesh of her hip.  _Holy fuck. _ The cigarette nearly fell from his mouth as he got a good look at the ass those jeans were holding up. Not even the people in Diamond City's Upper Stands were shaped like that, and they ate whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Her waist and torso were noticeably smaller than her hips. At least, from this angle. He was suddenly a 16-year-old again, having to hide the tent in his pants. He crossed an ankle over the opposite knee and slumped forward, keeping the pint of stout in his hand over the problem area.

The woman turned to him and gave him an indignant scowl. Shit. Had she caught him staring? Or had she noticed his reaction?

“You really should get better friends,” she said. _Oh._ That 'bitch' comment had been directed toward her. Okay, now that made more sense.

She was tall, taller than most women in the Commonwealth. He didn't have to stand to know she was taller than he was—most adults out here were, which made him the target of all sorts of tired jokes. That was until they saw what he could do: with his hands, with his sniper rifle, with his eyes, on the field, in the fray, in bed. Overcompensating? Maybe. Was it working for him? MacCready liked to think so.

She was giving him a strange look with those dark eyes like she was appraising him. He almost asked her if she liked what she saw, but decided he'd gotten into enough trouble for today. The first two buttons on her plaid flannel shirt were open. A third one and he could've gotten a sneak peek at that full rack of hers. Always did appreciate a nice rack, no matter the size—although Irma's voluptuous pair was a particular favorite.

“You MacCready?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Pity.

Took her long enough. He sighed. “Look, lady. If you're preaching about the Atom or looking for a friend, you've got the wrong guy.” The tilt of her head told him no. “But if you need a hired gun, then maybe we can talk.”

A drawstring bag, heavy with caps, smacked onto the table beside him.

“You ready to go? I need someone to help me get rid of some pests.”

MacCready poked through the bag, counting the caps to himself. There must have been about a thousand in there. Fuck yeah, he was ready to go! For this kind of dough, he'd kill the pests, dust, sweep, mop the floors and then rub her feet.

“What kind of pests?” Not that it mattered.

“Does it matter? They're not supposed to be there and my client needs them gone.”

A subcontractor. He could respect that. He supposed who the targets were didn't matter; this was Goodneighbor. No one was innocent here. Every single person was just as shitty as he was; therefore, it was a free-for-all.

The woman put a hand over the bag in his hand before he could pocket it.

“Before we go... You gonna tell me who those hooligans were?”

_Hooligans?_ Who was she, a schoolmarm from The Silver Shroud comics? He squeezed back. “A couple of morons looking to climb the ladder of success by stepping on everyone else on the way up. Shouldn't be surprised, though.” He shrugged. “That's how it goes when you run with the Gunners?”

“Gunners?”

As suspected, she was not a local. Not with that accent. Not with that body. “They're one of the biggest gangs in the Commonwealth. Got a rep for being crazy. You know, so tightly wound, you'd think they were a cult or something. Stuck with them for a while 'cause the money was good, but I never fit in. That's why I made a clean break and started flying solo.” She was so distracted with his story, she hadn't noticed he'd pulled the bag away from her and placed it on his lap yet. “Now, what about you?” He slid the bag into his pocket and she pulled her hand away from nothing. Absent-minded. Not a good trait to have in the Commonwealth. Not with hands and a body that soft. “How do I know I won't end with a bullet in my back?”

“Because I have shit aim,” she said like she was stating water was wet.

He snorted and bit back a laugh. _“What?”_

“You think I'd be hiring some random cat off the street if I could shoot worth a damn? You're there to watch my back.”

Was she fucking with him? She had to be. He was supposed to play babysitter to this... This...

Say, now that he was standing up, he got a better view of her cleavage, faintly dusted with freckles two shades darker than her tawny skin. Just the faintest hint in this shitty lighting, but it was all he could see without being too obvious. She wasn't too much taller. Maybe four or five inches. Pretty face, too. He could think of a thing or two he'd like to do with those lips.

The side of her lips twitched in a smirk. Slight, but he saw it.

He mirrored it. “Alright. You're the boss.”

* * *

It was past 3 am, a time when most sane people were asleep. He hated being out in the dark at night, trapped between the walls of an alley. Made them easy targets for those hoping to sneak up on them, and MacCready did not like surprises. Her footsteps were light, quick and quiet though, enough to make him wonder what she did for a living. Or had done. Seeing how she was taking requests from Charlie, he assumed her old gig had gone tits up. Unless she was one of those psychos who got off on watching people get killed.

Deep breath. This was for Duncan. Even if it meant tailing bloodthirsty psychopaths, or headhunting, or selling himself, he'd do it. He'd do anything for the only person who mattered to him.

The lock to the opened with nary a click: silent, smooth, efficient. Very nice. Maybe she wasn't as completely useless as she'd made herself out to be. He'd watched her hustle Charlie into paying her more caps, and he could have sworn the old Mister Gutsy was sweating. Made him wonder what else she was good at.

Dust motes floated about in the green light of her Pip-boy (now wasn't that an odd throwback?) and the scent of stale air wafted as soon as the door opened. A naked mannequin was lying on the ground like it had too much of a good time tonight. Junk, junk. More junk. Wasn't there anything useful in this dump? She didn't seem to think so, either, as she went ahead of him.

Hallway ahead. Boss lady glanced at him. He nodded. She reached, pulled something from her waist, and stabbed it into the Triggerman guard's neck. Right in the voice box. Brutal. Effective. Ripping it out, she made sure to slash him again and he dropped to his knees. Then to the floor, dead.

“The fuck was that?” one of them called out.

Racing footsteps. Now they knew they were here for certain. MacCready would have preferred some time to set up a nest and pick them out individually, but this was fine, too. Yep. Perfectly fucking fine. And—wait, was that a goddamn machete in her hand? Who the fuck carried machetes around, other than Raiders?

A stranger's dismembered hand dropped to the floor.

Up the stairs, Triggermen were coming out in droves, human and ghoul alike. Those were easy to pick off—hadn't spotted him just yet, and she wouldn't stand still long enough for them to aim properly. What chems was she on?

No time to think about that. More of them coming. Breathe. Aim. Hold. And...

Another one's head sprayed across the walls.

He caught her behind some crates, injecting a stimpak into her leg. They must've gotten her. A metal cylinder flew out from her hand and landed onto the second floor. He hoped to God she hadn't been aiming to hit anyone because—

A crackle of electricity lit up the warehouse in white and clawed his pupils shut. Son of a bitch! She could've warned him she was going to throw a pulse grenade! There were moans of pain, the blunt thudding of bodies on the floor. Then the _click-clack-boom_ of a shotgun. And again. And again. And then again. Six times, total. And then it was quiet.

He finally heard the shuffling of footsteps in front of him. Light, deliberate.

“Sorry. I panicked and forgot to say anything,” she said breathlessly and when he managed to get one of his eyes open she was holding out her hand.

“Damn... And I was just starting to have fun,” he said weakly and let her help him to his feet.

“Yeah, don't get comfortable yet. We got two more of these crap holes to blow up.” Her clothes had splatters of blood, but she either hadn't noticed yet or didn't care. The other two warehouses went a bit more smoothly: she had him stationed outside, perched on the rickety fire escape near some windows, while she worked her close-up magic on the inside. If she could have afforded a silencer it could have been a quick, hush-hush job, but the way it went was fine, too. Neither of them was too injured, other than that limp she had. Must've gotten her leg something bad.

Whitechapel Charlie was all peaches and sunshine when they returned to The Third Rail with the news. Should've known the one paying had been Hancock. He had a knack for delegating, something MacCready could respect.

Speaking of respect, he placed a handful of caps on the bar top.

“You here to finally settle your tab?” Charlie asked.

“Yup. A hundred caps, right? Got it all right here.”

“Oh, no. MacCready,” he groaned. Not the reaction he'd been gunning for. “I told you... a hundred caps covered the finders fee, but you still owed me for the disposal. But I'll tell ya what. For old time's sake, I'll let the debt go. But you owe me a favor.”

The hell he did. Robert Joseph MacCready didn't _do _owing favors. It was careless shit of that sort that got him in trouble in the first place with the Gunners. “Yeah, yeah. You're all heart, Whitechapel,” he muttered, dealing another hundred on the bar top.

Where was boss lady now?

The usual drifters sat in their tables, entranced with Magnolia's hypnotic voice. Or her curves. Or both. Couldn't blame them, especially if they'd already had a taste of her. Something about her was unforgettable. Whether it was the subtle perfume on her skin, the sound of her purring laughter in your ear, the way she looked at you like you were one of a kind...

He caught the swing of a long, dark braid. Oh. There she was. Back in the VIP room, injecting a stimpak into her hip. She'd pulled down her jeans enough to expose half an ass cheek and he felt himself twitch in his pants. Fuck. This woman was going to be the death of him. Once she was done, she wiggled back into her jeans and zipped them back up. _Oh, fuck. That wiggle. _

“You got a place to stay?” she asked. Damn. Caught him staring, hadn't she?

“Hmm?” He felt grateful for the red light shielding the fiery blush over his face—though he could have easily blamed it on the three pints he'd just had. “Yeah, yeah. The Rexford. Buddy of mine has me set up.”

“You, too, huh?”

Hancock's influence had more reach than he'd thought. What was his plan for her, then? Other than to fuck her brains out, of course. And why wouldn't he? A true hedonist, Hancock was always looking for the next way to drown his senses in nothing but pleasure and decadence. But, something wasn't adding up. The ghoul could talk nearly anyone into his bed, so why take the long road with this one? And, sure, Hancock was generous—both in the sack and out—but he was going out of his way to make her comfortable, with the biggest room in the Rexford, a discount hookup at Daisy's, plenty of work. And he hadn't seen him do anything more than giving her fleeting, giddy looks from across the room, or tell her she looked nice. And this was _Hancock _he was talking about_. _

Was she sick, or something? A new pet project? When MacCready asked him the next afternoon, he wouldn't say. Told him it wasn't his business to tell.

“Don't tell me you're jealous?” And now Hancock was giving him a triumphant grin, leaning back on the ugly, ancient chair of his desk.

“Fu—Agh. _No, _I'm just curious, that's all.” Curious as to why Hancock had all these jobs lined up for her all of a sudden when he'd been scrounging around for work for the past three months.

“Julia's paying you, ain't she?”

“Yeah, so?” So her name was Julia. He'd failed to get her name earlier.

“Then what's the problem? All the caps you woulda got are coming from her now.”

What was he hiding from him? Subtlety wasn't Hancock's forte, but something felt off. Like when someone moved a few objects around in his room thinking he wouldn't notice. But he did. He noticed everything. And he hated he couldn't name what had moved here.

Julia returned to the Rexford at around six-thirty, sporting a few shiners to her cheeks, lips, and knuckles. Someone had been in a scuffle.

“Shi—shoot. What happened to you?”

She swung her arm and shoulder in a circle and tilted her neck like she was sore. “Gear up. We're doing target practice.” Had she not heard him, or was the target of their practice whoever did that to her face?

He tried to mask his disappointment when he saw the targets were just that: wooden targets planted in a makeshift shooting range. Was this how she'd gotten all dinged up? Wrestling molerats and Triggermen for space? Careless. Had to be careful with this one; she'd wind up getting him killed.

Her stiff stance and shaky hands told him she wouldn't make the first shot, and he was right. The target was, what, maybe ten feet away from her? Didn't even nick it. “I, uh, think you should aim for the big green wooden part, boss.”

The look she gave him from the side of her eye could have burnt a hole into the sun. His heart leaped in his chest. _That's kinda hot, _he thought and suppressed laughing at his own pun. “Look, you're standing all wrong.” He tapped at the heel of her boot with the toe of his. “Gotta put your weight on it, for the kickback.” When she corrected her stance, he moved on to how she was holding it. “Like this. You're absorbing all the shock and it fuc—messes up the shot. Try it again.”

Miss.

Another miss.

Again.

Goddamn it, this wasn't going anywhere. “Why a shotgun?” he sighed, mussing a hand through his thick hair. “A pistol doesn't have as much kickback. Get a scope on it and you're set.”

The shotgun lowered to the floor. Fatigue was pulling at the undersides of her eyes and the corners of her mouth. “I—I don't know. I never did...guns,” she said quietly. She glanced down at the shotgun. “This was my husband's. It was all I had lying around.”

Husband. She was married. Or had been. No way he would have let Lucy travel around on her own with random mercs. When they'd decided to leave their homestead on the Capital Wasteland, they agreed to be together. The three of them.

“And it does the job, up close,” she added.

“Can't argue with that.” He pulled the pipe pistol from her bag. “Try this one instead.” Being 5'5 meant he couldn't quite line up with her eye level. At least he could get her hands positioned correctly: one underneath the grip, the other around the magazine and trigger. “Line it up riiight under your eye... Annnd...”

This time, the shot nicked the outside of the target, splintering a thumb-sized chunk off it. Not ideal.

“Did I hit it?”

“Uh... kinda,” he said, watching her go over to investigate it. Her eyes were wide and there was a faint smile on her face: the look of misplaced victory.

“I hit it! _Oh, my goodness!” _She laughed and bounced in place. “I hit it!”

He pulled his lips into a fine line. Didn't have to worry about her putting a bullet in his back after all. A knife, maybe, but definitely not a bullet. “Yup. Sure did.”


	2. Mas Que Nada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobbi No-Nose's dig comes with more complications than MacCready signed up for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titled after Dizzy Gillespie's "Mas Que Nada."
> 
> Repeat after me: Shoe size-to-length ratio is not a thing.
> 
> Get ready for some secondhand embarrassment!

MacCready woke up with a throbbing at his temples, a chastisement for having overdone it with the whiskey the night before. So, when his knocking got no response from Julia's room, he stomped downstairs in a huff. Did he really have to chase this lady around and make sure she wasn't getting herself killed?

_"Keep an eye on her for me and I'll make sure there's something extra for you,"_ Hancock had requested.

Two hundred caps now, four hundred when the contract was done. He was starting to think he should have asked the asshole for more. Her aim still sucked and her insistence on traveling at night was grating on his nerves. How did walking in the dark seriously not freak her out? Sometimes it felt like he was looking after a clueless kid back at Little Lamplight.

"No, these aren't it," he heard Julia say to Daisy.

"Sorry, baby-doll. It's all the caravan had. I'll put the word out to keep looking." Daisy was taking a pair of glasses back from her hands. A stack of old books he'd never seen before was sitting on the counter. Must have been from the Library she and Cait had cleared out.

_Glasses? _Was that all she was missing? It would explain why her aim was so tragically shitty. Well, damn. Now he nearly felt bad for making fun of her so much. _Nearly. _Not quite enough.

"Thanks, anyway. I'll be back to check later." She swiveled and went for the door, coming to a full halt when she saw him. Her eyes were searching for something, words to say, perhaps. Had she meant to keep this glasses thing a secret? She settled for a beaming grin. "Hey, Mac. Need somethin'?"

_You could have told me you needed some glasses. Is that why you keep digging through piles of old junk? _

MacCready decided it wasn't his business. They'd carried on just fine the way they were. "Uh, no." So, then why was he standing here? "I, uh, needed to talk to Daisy." It wasn't completely a lie, as it never hurt to ask.

Daisy waved at him and he waved back.

"Anything for me?"

He felt his shoulders slump when she shook her head. "Now, now, RJ. No news is good news sometimes. I'm sure Duncan is doing fine. Did you wanna get something out to him with the next caravan?"

There wasn't much other than caps: five hundred he'd saved just for him and his caretakers back in the Capital Wasteland. He placed them on the table surreptitiously, wrapped in some cloth.

"I'll make sure it gets to him, okay? Chin up."

"Thanks, Dais'. You're a doll."

Julia was on a bench outside, hunched over trying to glue the sole of her boot back together. That sucked. Had they been outside the city, it could have been near catastrophic. And with the way the weather was, things were bound to get wet or icy out there. She tied a few long strips of cloth around it to hold it in place while it dried. Her gray socks were worn down, toes hanging out of the holes. Must've gotten some damage at the library.

"Wouldn't happen to own a pair of size 7s, would ya?" she asked.

MacCready saw the opportunity and took it proudly. "Sorry. I wear an 11."

The implication either went over her head or didn't impress her. That was a thing, right? The shoe size to length ratio? She seemed far too preoccupied with her shoe situation.

"Got us a gig right outside the city," she said. She was rolling off her sock to replace it. "You know a Bobbi No-Nose?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

She gave him a listless glance. "She's doing some sort of dig. It's indoors, so we should be staying dry."

Once they got to the actual site, she must have realized how wrong she'd been. The moment he'd stepped through the door, the pungent smell of sewage nearly cracked his nose in half and twisted his stomach into a knot. Bobbi expected them to somehow dig through the sewer system and get past the angry mirelurks whose home they'd invaded. Angry workers muttered about a lack of pay and poor work conditions.

"Bobbi can take this job and shove it!" one of the retreating workers yelled.

"Good luck down there, lady."

This was bringing back Little Lamplight memories, of when molerats wormed their way into the campsite and everyone lost their minds as if they'd never seen rodents before. Especially Princess. She'd hated the little bastards the most. Come to think of it, other than power, Princess had pretty much hated everything, hadn't she?

The site rumbled with an explosion and he heard small rocks crack off the ceiling and fall into the floor and the water.

"Might not be the best place for grenades, boss," he chided.

"Well, you were so busy there thinking of pregnant birds," she said.

The fuck was that supposed to mean? He almost asked until he saw her carving up the mirelurks. Oh, that smell. Oh, he was going to lose it. His stomach grew cold and clenched. It was coming up; he could feel it at his throat.

"Hey... Could you _not?"_

"This is perfectly good meat I can cook up later!"

"It's from the fu—freaking sewer! Fish gives me gas, anyway.”

“Who said I was making it for you? And it's not fish, it's like...crab. What, you ain't never have crabcakes before?”

MacCready belched and he could taste the half-digested, stale sweetness of snack cakes mingling with sour stomach acids.  _“...No.”_

He heard her laughter echoing, even as his dry heaving made his ears pop. “You know, for someone who makes sexual innuendos every five minutes, you've got a  _really _ a low tolerance for smells.”

Aha! So she  _had _ gotten the reference! Wait, what was she implying? “Just what kinda sex have you been having, lady?”

Her mouth dropped open like she was offended, but she was laughing again in no time.

“I mean if it smells even remotely like this, something is seriously wrong with at least one of you.”

“Oh my God! You did not just...!” she cackled, and he swore he saw tears at the corners of her eyes. He wanted to keep it going, make her double over and wheeze like Lucy used to do at his corny jokes, but... He had nothing. Nothing that would keep what remained of his teeth intact anyway. “I'm just sayin', I've been to the Memory Den.”

“Well, yeah. It's all condensed in there. And have you seen the regulars?” Himself included, but she didn't need to know that. “Besides, if you're doing it right, you're not really paying that much attention to it.”

“Oho, is that so?”

Was that a challenge?

“I mean unless you're into that sort of thing.” The laughter had faded, but she was giving him a pointed look. Defiance? Or disapproval? Whatever it was, she moved on quickly and passed him. “Where are you going?”

“I'm not planning to lose a foot to germsville out here. Can you do me a solid?”

Some favor. But, he figured it should be easy enough to spot a guy with shoes around her size. He wouldn't have to sneak up on anyone or touch anything for the first half. Just observe and report. Outside the building there was one guy in a faded blue hard hat, he noted while he took a smoke break. The boots on his feet looked small enough to fit her.

“You play poker?” MacCready asked.

“Is it anything like caravan?”

“Boy, is it!” He really had no idea.

Inside, Julia had roped three other suckers into playing a few rounds with her, and they were gathered around the table like flies on a carcass.

“You guys never played before?” she asked in a strange accent he'd heard once before. But where? “It's a big hit in Diamond City.” There it was again. The exaggerated 'D' sounds. _Dzoy-mond Ci-ddy._

“So that's where you're from, toots,” one of them said.

“I mean it's great and all but, ugh! It's all so suffocating, y'know? I needed to be among the _real _people.” Her hand was on his shoulder and MacCready saw the man start to sweat. Chump.

She was busy explaining the rules of the game and setting the stakes. Something told him he'd probably be terrible at the game. Part of him wanted to believe he was great at playing pretend, but he knew himself better. The moment caps came up, a few of them groaned and murmured about not having enough. Especially their mark, Boot Guy. Yeah, that was his name now: Boot Guy. “Well, there _is_ another version of the game.” She gave a slight quirk of the lips in a smile both coy and naughty. “It's called _strip poker.”_

They were leaning in now, hanging on to every word she said.

“So, if you lose, you put up an article of clothing up for grabs. But if I lose...”

Boot Guy was nodding like he couldn't extrapolate incomplete information.

“So, whaddya say? Wanna play a few rounds? I've got some caps.”

The workers had decided to go with strip poker. And to their defense, she let them win a few rounds, shamelessly offering up her worthless work boots first. When they got her gloves and flannel shirt, though, MacCready started fidgeting. Just how far was she going to let them go? She still had an undershirt and her undergarments left under that shirt but...

No signal yet. He took his cap off and scratched at his scalp.

This time, Boot Guy gave up his prized shoes. He wasn't surprised to see he didn't bother to wear socks. But she still wasn't done. Not until he saw her peel the gray undershirt off her torso and over her head. His neck felt like his duster had become some sort of oven. That sheer black bra she wore didn't leave much to the imagination, did it? If he stared hard enough, he could see...her left eyebrow quirking up.

The sign! This was the sign! Oh, God. What was he supposed to do now? Right. The boots. Fetch the boots. So while the workers were busy ogling his boss' overflowing cups, he stuffed the pair of boots into her knapsack and made sure she saw him scratch at his nose.

“Oh, you guys!” she chided. “I thought you said you didn't know how to play! I've been swindled!”

Snorts and grunts came from them like they were a bunch of horny brahmin.

“Well, you guys were really good. But I think I'll fold.”

“Awww, c'mon! We'll let you play for caps, sweetheart!”

Another twitch of the brow. _We gotta go now, _it meant. Way ahead of her. “No... I should get back home. Maybe I'll make enough caps to buy myself a new blouse!”

Once she turned, her smile fell and she left the whistling behind her. MacCready handed her the bag and once she got back to the putrid sewer, she sat down to put the boots on. Though maybe the smell was coming from the boots this time. Who could be sure? She was bending over to tie her laces. What parts of her torso he could see above her high-waisted jeans were mottled with old greenish-yellow bruises and grayish-brown scars. One even looked like an old gunshot wound.

And now she was looking up at him. The abject horror that washed over him was like having a bucket of ice spilled over his head.

“Like whatcha see, MacCready?” she teased.

“Please,” he sputtered. “If you're trying to impress me, it's not going to work.”

“You're just mad you got caught.” She sat up and gave her shoulders a shimmy. That. Was _NOT _fair. 

“Oh, God.” He smacked a hand over his burning face and turned away. “Put some clothes on, will ya?”

She was laughing. Of course she was. He hadn't even been staring at them. Though now that she went and teased him about it, they were all he could think about. She was a child, he decided. A giant, over-developed child.

“Here. I got you a present, ya little pervert.”

A box of .308 rounds. Nice. He sneaked a look at Julia who was giving him a grin, fully dressed in a different flannel shirt.

“So, what was that over there? A Darla impression?”

“So, you've had the pleasure, too.”

Darla had liked going after the bad boy type, and MacCready fit the bill. Just for the night, though. She hadn't been as thrilled the morning after when she found out that he was broke and homeless. “You...could say that. How do you know her?”

“Skinny Malone.” She rolled her eyes as if even she didn't believe that. “Mostly through Nick, though.” Made sense. Her rich daddy had probably put all of Diamond City Security on high alert for his precious brat of a daughter.

“Was that even a real game? It seemed like you were making sh—stuff up.”

She grinned. “Oh, it's a real game, alright. I just don't remember all the rules, so I may have fudged them a little.”

That conniving little shit.

Bobbi was seething by the time they got back, grumbling something about cutting corners and being cheap. He wasn't exactly thrilled there would be a third player in the game, but this was the ghoul's dig, not his. And getting out of Goodneighbor for the first time in months had him feeling like hope was shining down on him for once.

* * *

Just like the older kids at Little Lamplight had said he'd been, his hopeful attitude was premature. Decembers in the Commonwealth were shitty: cold, windy, wet and icy. Combine that with a partner who 1) didn't seem to know how weather worked and 2) insisted on traveling after dark and this job had become his new personal hell. She was shivering in her big ass coat, wobbling on her long ass legs like she'd never walked in a fucking ice storm before. Another shirt was wrapped around her neck and lower half of her face in a makeshift muffler.

"This is stupid, boss. We're gonna freeze to death out here."

She stopped abruptly enough that he crashed into her and nearly fell on his ass. Goddamn fucking Pip-boy. "Diamond City is... an hour and fifty minutes away," she said. Out of breath. Not good. "We can make it before sunrise if we shake a leg."

"I'm not seeing why we couldn't have waited until sunrise in the first place."

"Because no Raider is stupid enough to travel at night, ya dig?"

MacCready stopped. "Did you even hear yourself just now?" If a strung-out Raider wasn't stupid enough to freeze their ass off out here, then what did that make them? One look at the blushing red hazy sky told him this storm was bound to get worse. "We need to get indoors. Now."

Her heavy sigh came out in a white puff and her shoulders slumped in defeat. Success. Another glance at her Pip-boy and then at their surroundings. "There should be a decent place to stay if we keep going that way," she said, pointing to the east. Of course there was. They were in a forest of abandoned buildings; all she had to do was pick one without too many radroaches and feral ghouls. The sleet softened into a steady snowfall, which was nice considering he was getting tired of getting pelted in the face with ice pellets. But it definitely meant they should stop for the night. She'd taken too many slips on her ass to trust her not to break something.

They came to a stop in front of a building with a grungy blue door with a flickering light above it and a graffitied sign that read "Hubris Comics." Man, would Kent be psyched to hear he'd made the trip. During some of his downtime, MacCready would listen to some of Kent's broadcasts, especially his theories on _Silver Shroud_ and _Grognak_ issues and he found he agreed with most of them.

There was a hiss the moment she opened the door.

Ferals rushed at them.

It was happening again.

They were going to rip her apart. Right in front of him. Just like with Lucy.

Just like with Lucy. He was going to watch helplessly.

Just like with Lucy.

MacCready wouldn't move. Couldn't move.

Pain ripped through his shoulder. It was going to happen to him. Just like with Lucy. He grabbed the butt of his rifle and beat it into the side of the feral ghoul's head. Again. And again. And again.

Was that what Lucy felt when they tore through her body?

_"Go!"_ he heard her scream. But she wasn't there. _"Take Duncan and go!"_

Not anymore. They were tugging at her chestnut hair and her mouth and her arms and slashed her to bits and she was screaming for help like she regretted telling him to go and his chest hurt and Duncan wouldn't stop crying. He wouldn't stop crying. And when Lucy went silent, MacCready wouldn't stop crying either.

When he regained his wits, he felt warm. Strangely comfortable. There was a scent, sweet and spicy mingled with sweat, and a softness in his hand he hadn't felt in months. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and a second one around both him and Julia, who had dozed off next to him. The wall offered both of them some support as they were sitting, and her shoulder was serving as a pillow for his head. She didn't seem to mind it, nor the fact that his arms were clinging around her waist. Her hair was down: frizzy, long, and thick, dented from the elastics being on it for so long. It felt like it added another layer of warmth to her. It was...nice.

One of her eyes opened the moment he lifted his head. Eye contact. But then she closed them like she'd just been checking on him and went back to sleep. Didn't ask anything, didn't offer any shitty platitudes, nor asked whether he was okay like he could have possibly been okay.

If she wasn't going to mind, and if she wasn't going to ask, then he wanted to stay like this for a while. Her body heat was a magnet that had him trapped, at least for the time being, and he had a feeling his arms would ache the moment he let go.

So MacCready leaned his head against her shoulder, closed his eyes, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The sound of scratching made a surge of fear swim through his veins. He clawed for his rifle only to see Julia wrapped up in a black coat with her nose buried in a comic book. Her hair was up again. She was squinting and she held it close to her face; the sight reminded him of the first time he'd snagged a nudie magazine from one of the older kids back at Lamplight. Trying to figure out just what he was looking at and why it existed, though he knew he already liked it. From what he could tell, the issue she held was a _Unstoppables, _likely #5. The Ux-Ron Galaxy one. Classic.

“I had issues 1-4,” she said. “Number 5 came out the week before the bombs dropped and I was saving up to get it. And then the place in Concord ran out on the fourth day.” She snorted. “I had to pretend I was getting it for my imaginary nephew.”

So she hadn't read that one yet. No wonder she seemed so excited.

“There's Cram in the bag if you want it,” she added.

He shook his head. Not feeling too hungry at the moment. He hoisted himself up on his feet and examined what was left of the comic book store—aside from the mutilated feral corpses. Shelves knocked over on their backs housed wrinkled issues of just about every series he could imagine: _Grognak the Barbarian, Astoundingly Awesome Tales, The Silver Shroud_—just about everything.

“If I could only find the issue where Mastadonald and Skullpocalypse teamed up to fight Grognak, I'd have a complete set,” he mused. He felt her look his way for a moment.

“Hey, check this out.” She smacked her hands against a glass case. The biggest ax he'd ever seen rested in a cracked glass case. “You think it's real? Like, it can do some damage?”

“Anything can do damage if you put enough elbow grease behind it.”

“You're right. I should open it.” She produced a bobby pin in her hand and got to work. “Oh... I'm guessing it's _lethal. _This lock's got like...10 pin stacks.”

He wasn't quite sure what that meant, but it sounded kind of hot.

The bobby pin snapped and she sighed. Out came another. “They really didn't want anyone getting in here.” Her wrists were deathly still, paling knuckles steering the pin and screwdriver gently. And when the lock clicked open, she let out a sort of gasp mixed with a sigh of satisfaction, reminiscent to the sound of that initial penetration... For fuck's sake, he was getting all hot and bothered over a lock. He needed to unwind. Probably hit up an old acquaintance in Diamond City the minute he got a chance.

A childlike smile lit up her face once she felt the weight of the ax in her hands. “Holy cannoli, would you get a load of that?”

She hadn't been kidding. If he had to lug that thing all the way to Diamond City, his arms might fall off. “You're not gonna make me carry this, are ya?”

“No. But imagine the damage I could do with this. I tried on the costume but it wouldn't fit me.”

“What costume?”

“The Grognak costume. It's a...” She snapped her fingers repeatedly and muttered something he couldn't understand. “Oh, what's the word? One of those cloth things that go around your waist and cover your crotch and nothing else...”

“A loincloth?”

“A loincloth! Right on! Yeah, it wasn't jiving with me. But these boots are pretty crazy, right?”

He never wanted to talk about footwear with her again. Not after those mirelurks and that weirdness with the stripping poker or whatever it was called.

“Oh, and they got a whole studio up there. I had no clue this was where they filmed _The Silver Shroud _at._”_

Was it just him, or was she talking more than usual? Like she was filling up the silences between them, or coaxing him out without asking. Was this about last night? It was all a blur. There were feral ghouls and then he'd woken up in a blanket. Why did she even care? He got that she needed him to watch her six, but swaddling him up like a baby was another deal.

“Why are you out here, anyway? You're obviously not from around here.”

She grimaced. “That obvious, huh?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” Though she had said something about the store in Concord and... Wait. It just hit him. Before the bombs? What was she? Some kind of extra pickled ghoul? “Why don't you start with you being around before the bombs?”

“So you did hear that.” Since when did she drop hints? Ever since they met, she'd blurt shit out at random intervals. He had no clue if half of it was true, and maybe that's what pissed him off the most about her. “Hancock hasn't told you, then.”

“Told me what?”

“Oh, wait.” She scratched at her head. “I guess I didn't tell him, either. I guess I thought Nick would...”

“Told me _what?”_

She set the ax down, and the look on her face darkened.

“Well, I'm from a Vault.”

The tension in his face dropped. How anticlimactic. “Yeah, no sh—...kidding.” As if the glowing Pip-boy on her arm wasn't some big ass neon green sign screaming “Look at me! I'm a Vaultie!”

When she explained it had been a cryogenic facility, he thought it sounded like something out of a comic book. But, then again, it explained why she talked so fucking weird and looked so different. And it accounted for the fading, lighter band of skin across her ring finger, and for why Valentine and Hancock had been doting on her so much. A grieving widow looking for her child. And for the kicker, all thanks to the Institute.

The front door groaned, and then Julia did too. Frozen shut, most likely. She sighed and sat in front of it like she could intimidate it to open.

"We didn't have seasons where I grew up."

No seasons? What the hell did that even mean? He supposed a lot of things about her made sense, but no snow? No turning of the leaves? He remembered reading about tropical places, countries full of palm trees and thick green plant life. Did those places even exist anymore? Or had the bombs left them as barren as the Commonwealth and the Capital Wasteland? Had Julia walked around with coconut shells for a top? Oh, he'd pay to see that.

She snorted. "Y'know, Nate used to get so mad at me. Said I didn't know how to dress for the weather. Dressing in layers and all that." A shrug. "All I needed to know was whether to wear open or closed shoes and whether I needed an umbrella or not."

Must have been nice. He wasn't a fan of hot weather—humidity made the caves unbearable—but not having to worry about freezing to death was a plus in his mind. 

“He used to have these... spells,” she said. “And he'd freeze up, or just start... screaming, y'know? Like he was back in Anchorage. It really did a number on him. Never really was the same after that.” She leaned her head back against a shelf. “Sometimes he'd squeeze my hand so tight, it'd bruise the next day. But he said it helped him, y'know. To know I was there.”

Oh. This was about last night after all. Had he hurt her, too? Goddamn it, why couldn't he remember? She didn't look more banged up, aside from the scratches from the feral ghouls.

“What about you?”

MacCready bristled. “What  _about _ me?” She didn't seriously think he was going to spill some heartwrenching secret because she suddenly had a case of the verbal runs, did she?

“Well, seeing as we slept together, you could at least give me your real name.”

“My real name _is _MacCready. And I don't think that means the same thing it meant back then, lady.”

“Sure does. I let you go to second base and _everything.”_

If a few deathclaws decided to maul him to death right now, he decided it'd be preferable over the sheer dread and embarrassment he felt right now. Oh, God. He'd felt her up. “Why... Why does it even matter?”

“You know my name, don't you?”

“Yeah. No thanks to you.”

She rolled her eyes. “But you know it.”

He could feel her expectant stare burning on his skin. “Robert Joseph,” he conceded. “My friends call me RJ.”

“RJ,” she repeated like she was tracing it out with her tongue, and it sounded awfully sweet coming from her. “I like RJ. Suits you.”

Lucy had told him that, too, the day they'd met. But Julia was nothing like Lucy. She'd been innocent, sweet, wholesome. Julia was... He didn't know what he thought of her yet. She was a jigsaw puzzle of conflicting pieces that somehow fit together. Like one of those abstract paintings he'd seen in prewar books. Or like a Kerouac poem. Or a bebop jazz record. Or maybe she was a little like Lucy, after all: one of a kind.

But she didn't need to know that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thinking about pregnant birds" is a literal translation of a Puerto Rican idiom that means to daydream (as in, pregnant birds not being a real thing so you're in a fantasy land.) I can't tell you how many times I've tried using an idiom that doesn't translate into English just to leave people just as confused as Mac.


	3. Stray Cat Strut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready learns that with Julia when things can't possibly get much worse, they almost always do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me "Stray Cat Strut" by the Stray Cats isn't the perfect song for Mac.
> 
> So, I was looking through my bag of overused tropes and cliches and was like, "Hey! Why don't I just dump it all over this chapter and see what can go wrong?" So, I did and... Well, you get this: Self-indulgent, cringey, suspension-of-belief goodness. Enjoy!

A day and a half late, but he was glad they were finally out of that musty hell hole and back on the road. The snow was starting to melt into patches of brown and white ice and thanks to some eager caravans, some carved out paths in the right direction. However, the snow made them easy targets. Not only did it slow them down, but they stood out in contrast and it absorbed noise, made everything so eerie and silent. Perfect conditions for a sniper. Had he been the sniper, of course.

“Look, I think I should tell you,” she began. _Oh boy. Here we go._ “I might've burned some bridges at Diamond City.”

An easy feat in such a divided city. He was sure Darla's mother would have him shot on the spot if she ever saw him again. Although he hadn't been to Diamond City in about five or six years, so it was always possible that the old bitch had forgotten what his bare ass looked like (not like he planned on showing anyone) or that she had died already.

“Who'd you piss off?” he asked. He was not liking the way she grimaced.

“McDonough.”

He had to laugh. Because of _course _she would piss off the one person to deny them entrance to the entire fucking city. Not just some random Upper Stands asshole, but the motherfucking mayor of the motherfucking city. “Don't tell me you called him a synth.”

“No.” She picked at her cuticles. He knew that sign. And that was never a good sign. Oh, it was worse, wasn't it? “Look, he was threatening this girl and her kid sister, so what was I supposed to do?

Ignore it? No, not even he was that cold. “What did you do?”

“I, uh... might have screamed and caused a scene.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “People thought he was... accosting me. —Oh, but I didn't lie! He grabbed my arm. But I kinda made it seem like...”

MacCready scrubbed a hand over his face. This was more payback for working with the Gunners, right? It had to be. There was no way he'd get saddled with this much bad luck. “And let me guess: the girls were journalists? Piper and Nat Wright?”

“Oh, you know Piper and Nat?”

Ah, goddamn it. He needed a smoke. And a drink. But seeing as cigarettes were all he had left, it would have to do.

“We're not getting in, are we?”

“Yeah, I think you might have fu—screwed up our chances here, boss.” She patted down some ice to make herself a bench to rest. Bad idea. Her ass was going to get soaked, but he wasn't telling her that. Served her right for fucking this all up. This was supposed to be simple: go meet Bobbi, finish the job and get a buttload of caps.

“They don't check ID badges or papers, do they?”

“What?” What would they need papers for? She had that look on her face. That squinty, shifty-eyed look she got before she asked for some outlandish favor to fulfill whatever insane plan she'd cooked up in that crackpot dome of hers. “No. Whatever it is you're thinking, the answer is no.”

“Oh, c'mon! This might be our only way in, RJ!”

Ugh, why had he told her his name? _“No.”_

She was silent for a while, thank God. And then, “What if... I gave you 75% of what we make with Bobbi? You get half of my half.”

Oh, now he _knew_ this was some half-baked scheme. Still... 75% was a sexy number when it came to caps.

The indecision must have been showing on his face because she went ahead and spoke again. “What if... and hear me out...” Because what solid plan began with _hear me out?_ “What if we go in together? As husband and wife?”

The nicotine smoke burned his throat; he would have choked on his cigarette, had he not spat it out onto the snow. Yeah, this bitch was out of her mind. “We're done here. I quit.” His boots crunched into the snow.

“We're not getting hitched for real!” Now she was following him. Great. “I'm just sayin', if you don't have too much of a rep there, then maybe we can both get in.”

“Yeah, and who says I don't?”

“Do you?”

Shit. “...No.” What was with that goofy-ass grin? “What makes you think they're gonna remember you, anyway? It's been a few weeks. Maybe they forgot.”

“Doubtful.” She _did_ stand out in a crowd, for several reasons. “Piper kinda wrote this article later. It's _everywhere.”_

That hadn't been one of them. “Aw, f—!” No, he was cool. He could handle this without breaking the promise to Duncan. He took a deep, deep breath, focusing on the chill filling his lungs and not on how much he wanted to shove her face in the snow. “I want 90,” he said through his teeth.

“85.”

“_90.”_

“Done.”

Perhaps he should have mentioned there was something to be said about the art of subtlety, because if she planned to draw attention away from herself, her getup was the wrong way to go about it. She'd changed her makeup to these weird, thick winged markings on her eyes instead of the bright red lip stuff she used, and swept her hair under a large black hat with a mesh thing over her face that looked like it was either part of some lingerie or meant to keep away mosquitoes. The half-foot height difference notwithstanding, she looked ridiculous. Which meant _they_ looked ridiculous. But, she was the boss and 90% of those caps were going to be worth the trouble, he hoped.

Though they got through the gate without too much staring, the marketplace was full of faces who would stop, stare and whisper to another.

“This is stupid,” he muttered. Her arm was hooked around his and he hated it. Hated, hated, hated it. Yes, that was what he felt. He hated it. His body was definitely not reacting to the close contact, nor the fact that he could smell the flowery oils she used to keep her hair soft, nor the hint of her perfume, nor the heat from her body. _Hated _it.

“Now, now. Sullivan let us in without a fuss, so let's not cause one, _darling.”_

Bobbi had asked them to meet her by the noodle shop, so they went there first. Good thing. All this arguing had gotten him hungry and he hadn't gotten to savor Takahashi's chewy noodles in ages. Things were finally looking up for RJ MacCready.

“Nan-ni shimasho ka?”

“What's up, Taka? Set me up with some of your shima... uh, shimichanga... err, whatever they're called.” He pointed at Julia, who was staring at the protectron with wide, curious eyes. “Have you ever had this guy's noodles? They're amazing. Taka! Buddy! Give her a round, too.”

Takahashi pushed forward a steaming bowl in front of him, then another for her. Salty and chewy and exactly what he needed right now. Aside from a beer. Yeah, a beer would have been perfect with this. Across from him, Julia was working a waterfall of noodles into her mouth with a pair of those weird sticks no one knew how to use. How was she even doing that?

“Oh, these almost taste like the real thing,” she said. “There was this shop back in Newark. Best ramen noodles ever. Came with these thin little slices of roasted pork and everything. I always stopped by after class on Fridays.” What in the hell was _pork? _“And then, well... You know how things were. If you stood out as different, they came for ya. Anyway, Mr. Matsuda wound up closing the place. Too many of the locals said he was promoting 'communism' or some bull.” She sighed. “They just hated Japanese people. All East Asian people, really. Everyone was as paranoid as they are today. Just for different reasons.”

“There you are,” said a raspy voice behind him and he nearly knocked over his bowl from the fright. “Was wondering whether you'd show up.”

Speaking of ridiculous outfits, Bobbi wore a gas mask over her face. Now if that wouldn't cause a million questions to pop up in someone's mind...

“Snowed in,” Julia said and slurped down another tuft of noodles.

“Yeah, well... Let's get down to business.” She explained the plan was to get to the strongroom buried beneath the mayor's office and how it was payback for the way he treated ghouls. What didn't sit right was how the payment wasn't just caps, it was meds and food, too. Which meant there were fewer caps in it, to begin with. And Bobbi wasn't known for being too generous. No, there was something not right here.

“Problem is, my tech guy, Mel is locked up at the moment.”

God forbid he ever find a simple one-and-done job. No, now he had to bust some idiot out of jail, too. As much as she tried to play down the difficulty, this was gonna be a tough job. Diamond City security was already paranoid, to begin with. Julia would only complicate matters. They hadn't even started yet and this was starting to give him a headache.

“We should find a place to crash for the night,” she said. “And you look like you could use a drink.”

He decided he wasn't going to talk. Not to her. Not until his fists unclenched. Not until he could stand to look at her without wanting to spew a stream of incoherent curses that would have made Duncan cry.

Fortunately, the Dugout Inn had been an old haunt of his. He liked the bartender, Vadim Bobrov; he was a real character, as was his brother Yefim... although their drinks were often watered-down and MacCready had often wound up shitfaced, waking up with a headache, a stranger or two, and strange markings all over his face after offering to try their infamous moonshine.

Vadim left his post behind the counter to envelop him in an uncomfortable, yao guai hug. 

“Vadim!” he laughed into his chest. “Still killing people with your moonshine?”

“MacCready! Is good to see you, _tovarisch.”_ He vaguely recalled him explaining it meant 'friend' in his grandparents' tongue. Russian, or something. Vadim smacked at his shoulder playfully. “How is Lucy? She still as beautiful as I remember?”

MacCready's smile vanished, his gaze sweeping over the dusty concrete floor. He pressed his lips together and cleared the knot out of his throat. “Uh, no... She, ah... She didn't make it, Vadim.”

He heard him clear out his throat too, saw the arm going up to rub the awkwardness off the back of his neck. “I'm sorry. Mouth tends to be faster than brain. Ah! And who is this with you?”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, no no no fucking no. He glanced over at Julia, whose smile was no longer reaching her eyes. “She's... Um...” Aw, goddamn motherfucking son of a shit-eating bitch.

“No shame in this, MacCready. Sometimes moving on is good thing, yes? No set time for grief, like in old country.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. Right,” he said. “This is, uh...” Oh, he was going to say it. It felt like bile coming up. “This is my... wife.” Tasted just like it, too. He barely got the last word out, like the weak burp stuck in the throat after a night of vomiting.

“Lola,” she said, voice tight. “Uhh... Yeah. It was meant to be, I guess. A widow and a widower, finding solace in each other's arms.” She gave a terse laugh. Her voice was different. Softer. Like she couldn't bring herself to sell the idea. Julia excused herself and headed for the bathroom when he heard a familiar shrill, plummy voice.

“_Blue?”_

Oh, God. No. Not Piper. Now the entire fucking city would know they were here. Julia shushed her and placed a gloved hand over her mouth (not that it shut her up at all), shaking her head, and then lead her to the empty couch.

“How you keep finding such beauties, ah? You must tell old Vadim your secret.” He slid him a foaming mug of beer, which MacCready took to chugging down. This wasn't happening. This had to be a nightmare. A feral ghoul would pop out soon and claw them all to death and then he'd wake up sweating and shaking and this would all be over.

“Luck, I guess.” Bad luck. Mirror-shattering, walking-under-a-ladder, broom-sweeping-your-feet, black cat-crossing, stepping-on-a crack kind of bad luck. Like he must have been some evil, baby-stealing, Halloween candy-poisoning, puppy-kicking bastard in the past life kind of bad karma.

“Seriously, I can set something up,” he heard Piper insist.

“No, really. We're... just passing by for a job.”

“Nonsense, Blue. Listen, I might not approve of your choice,” she said and glared up at him for a second, “but I'm happy for ya. I really am. You deserve something good, for once. And MacCready has lots of friends here who want to wish him well, too.” The _for some reason_ was heavily implied.

“No, wait—”

Too late. Piper was out the door to do whatever the hell Piper did. And it couldn't be good. From Julia's downcast expression, head in her hands and avoiding all eye contact, shit was about to get worse.

And it did. The Dugout Inn was packed: Piper had gotten all his old friends and some of Julia's acquaintances. Aside from the Bobrov brothers, Mr. Zwicky and his robot-wife Edna showed up, as well as Nat, Ellie Perkins, a fucking _dog_ (Julia had squealed the name “Dogmeat” repeatedly when she saw him) Travis Miles, and Pastor Clements who was in the middle of some sermon. How had he gotten himself in this situation? _Let's see:_ Hancock got them to work together. Normal. Check. They'd done a few jobs, earned a few caps. Also normal. Check. Then they wound up doing some convoluted job for Bobbi No-Nose and they ended up here? Who was more to blame? Bobbi? Or Julia? At this point, he could strangle them both.

“Uh, Mr. MacCready?”

“Huh?” He looked at Pastor Clements, who appeared to be awaiting an answer.

He cleared his throat and smiled politely. “I said, Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

No! Fuck no. But the caps... Shit. “Uh-huh.”

“And you, Lola, do you take Robert Joseph MacCready to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Julia seemed to be in as much of a stupor as he was. Served her right. He'd _told_ her this was a bad idea. She hadn't been counting on how much of a gossip pit Diamond City was, had she?

“...Yeah,” she said in a small voice, barely blinking.

“We not hear!” Vadim shouted. “What she say?”

Pastor Clements laughed along with the crowd. “Come on, now. You know they're nervous. She said, 'yes.'” Vadim cheered in the back, then grunted at what was most likely Yefim's elbow to the rib. “Then by the power invested in me, I pronounce you man and wife.”

* * *

Julia's sudden claim of dizziness and need to rest became his chance to escape. Though not for long, as Vadim kept urging him to go “comfort” her. The room was dark, light spilling in through the door as he opened it, and Julia was already in bed curled up on her side and facing one of the windows. The room smelled like smoke—like someone had lit a bunch of candles. Seemed like something Piper would have done. Julia must have blown them all out. There were hubflower and fern flower petals, much like the ones that'd been adorning her hair, dumped on the floor near the bed. The painful memory of the night he and Lucy got married crossed his mind; he'd left carrot and tato blossoms all over their bedsheets. He'd read about it in that Grognak comic where he fell in love with the Corsair Queen, back when roses were still around. Lucy had called it romantic.

He loosened the loaned bowtie from his neck and peeled off the monkey suit of a tattered tuxedo he wore. Ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous, every single bit of it. The suit, the wedding, the DJ stuttering into the microphone, _everything. _Although, he supposed it didn't mean shit. No one carried around marriage certificates, nor identification, nor filed such things (whatever that meant)—_how did anyone in prewar times handle divorces?_—so it wasn't as if this ceremony made them official. If he burned the certificate, no one would have to know.

Still no reaction from her, other than a sniffle. Served her right. Damn straight she should be crying. This was all her fault.

Now where the fuck was he supposed to sleep? Yefim had Scarlett push two twin beds together into a sad impression of a queen bed. But he was sure Julia was just as reluctant to sleep so close again as he was

No. Fuck it. If he had to suffer through this, so did she.

The bedsprings squeaked under his weight as he balled himself up and tugged the covers in his direction.

“I didn't know you were married.”

He squeezed his eyes until he saw little flashes behind his lids. _Not now._

“I'm sorry... If I had known...” She sighed. “It wasn't supposed to be like this. I didn't mean to rope you into this. I—”

“If you're really sorry, then do me a favor and stop talking for five minutes, okay? I got a headache.”

Thankfully, she complied. Neither of them said anything else until the next morning.

* * *

After some schmoozing with the DC guards, they released Mel without so much as a demand for caps. Really made a guy like him feel safe in the hands of the city's finest. Mel was a gangly man with distinctive copper hair one could see a mile away and a penchant for robots bordering on a fetish.

“Meet Sonya,” he said, caressing his eyebot like a lover. “This little bot is going to help us move through the earth like a mole rat on jet.”

Really? An eyebot? Like the kind the Enclave used? MacCready was not impressed. “As opposed to a robot with, you know, _arms?” _

“What did you expect? A Mr. Handy with a shovel?” Mel scoffed as if he'd made an intelligent quip. “She's one of a kind.” He explained how he'd modified her radio systems to emit sonic pulses at a specific frequency to loosen up sediment deposits.

“Mel says we'll be able to get to the strongroom ten times faster than just digging,” Bobbi added. “And it's a helluva lot safer than loading the place up with dynamite.”

There was a pause, and only then Julia realized everyone was looking at her.

“...What? I wouldn't!”

Instead of acknowledging her, they followed Mel and his creepy eyebot thing. One sonic blast and boulders fell apart into pebbles and sand. Glowing mirelurk nest aside, this was a pretty clean tunnel, in his opinion: a steady floor and, once the dust cleared, a ceiling that didn't crumble at first touch.

That was until they reached the subway. And the feral ghouls. They were still at a long enough distance that MacCready could scope them out and pick them off one by one. A cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Were they behind him? No. No, they couldn't sneak up on him if he was against a wall, right? Each breath rang between his ears. The tinny pre-recorded announcements felt garbled in the flood of adrenaline, among the grunts, snarls and slashing up ahead. Fucking hell. Just when he'd thought this situation couldn't possibly get any worse.

“MacCready,” he heard Julia say. “Catch.”

He held his hands out. A can hit him square in the forehead. Okay. He wasn't going to scream. Nope. This was fine. Everything was fine and he definitely wasn't going to yell up a fucking cuss storm. Even breathing was painful from the tension tearing at every fiber of his muscles. He looked at the can in his hand. Purified water.

Julia had covered her mouth with her hands in a horrified expression that said she knew she'd fucked up.

It was fine. Everything was just fucking fine.

They were in a tunnel that smelled like moldy ass, covered in dust, surrounded by mirelurks and feral ghouls, and his forehead was bleeding because the woman he'd accidentally married couldn't aim more than four feet in front of her. And now she was looking at him like he'd take a swing at her like he was some alcoholic prewar sitcom bastard.

Everything was just fucking peachy.

The canned water hissed open and he chugged it; if he thought about it hard enough, he could maybe make it taste like whiskey, and maybe it'd make him pass out and then wake up to a hangover headache more pleasant than whatever convoluted nightmare this was.

That Mel guy seemed off. Shifty. Kept muttering to himself, looking at an old map, shaking his head. Bobbi kept telling him to shut up and move on. It was in the last room, the one Bobbi claimed to be the strongroom when he spoke up.

“Look, I've been mapping it out and I think Diamond City should be a little further north of here,” Mel said.

“I don't have a doubt in my mind,” Bobbi insisted. “How about a little trust for the boss?”

Yeah, no. There was definitely something off here. They'd spent far too much time digging for this to have been Diamond City.

“Let's just get up there. If I'm wrong, oh well. We find another way.” Oh, well? _Oh, well? _They'd crawled through miles of sludge and mutant crabs and fucking zombies for her to just shrug off a potential mistake with _oh, well? _That attitude got people killed. Why did people seem to not understand this?

Mel's eyebot sent a final blast through the ceiling, making the above collapse into chunks, flooring and all, and took the small robot with it, much to his distress. “No, no, no! Sonya!” he cried.

“Pull yourself together, Mel,” the ghoul said. “We don't need that thing anymore, anyway. You can make another robot with the haul we get from the strongroom.” When the man began to sob, she smacked the back of his head. “Keep your head in the game.”

Radiation was prickling at the hairs on his arms and legs, on the back of his neck. If they didn't move fast, they'd start to glow. The strongroom door whined open, but it didn't seem to bother Bobbi, who'd gone ahead of them, nor whomever she was speaking to.

“Bobbi, what are ya doin' here?” a woman said from above, from the catwalk. A redhead in leather. Fahrenheit. Shit. He knew it! He knew this had been a bad idea and had he stopped it? No. Just went along with it like some idiot! “You seriously didn't think Hancock would catch wind of your scheme?” She leaned over the railing, gray eyes as cold as the modded rifle strapped to her back. “He took you in, Bobbi. And you're stealing from him?”

Bobbi spun to look at Julia. “Don't listen to her.”

“Wait, Hancock? What does this have to do with Hancock?”

“Yeah, about that. As Mel guessed, this isn't the Diamond City strongroom.”

Fahrenheit was resting her sculpted cheek on her fist, bored. Like she just wanted someone to start shooting already. “I see the rest of you are in the dark about this. Nice, No-Nose. You all just broke into Hancock's storeroom. You know. Hancock? The mayor of Goodneighbor?”

Julia's mouth dropped in a scowl acidic enough to eat through the metal crates. Bobbi had played her for the bullheaded fool that she was.

“Dammit, Bobbi,” Mel sighed.

“Listen, guys. I know this isn't what you expected.” Yeah, like anything she said could possibly make this better. “But there are still a ton of caps on the line here. Help me take her out and all of it is ours.”

Caps. Just how many were they talking about?

“This is Hancock we're ripping off here,” Mel insisted. “The guy tends to hold grudges.”

“Counteroffer,” Fahrenheit said, holding a finger up in the air. “Just go back into your tunnel and we can forget this ever happened. What do you say?”

Julia stepped to Bobbi, an indignant frown on her lips as she cracked her knuckles. “You lied to me, Bobbi. I ran between two cities bending over backward for you and you lied to me.” She shook her head. “We're done here.”

“You can't do this to me. This isn't how this was supposed to go.” She spat. “Know what? Fine! More for me.” The first shot went through Mel's skull, breaking it open like a summer melon. But Julia was quicker. A hand on Bobbi's shotgun lowered its aim and gave her leverage to elbow the ghoul in the face. Had she still had a nose, it would have broken, but the blow sent her staggering.

One shot from Fahrenheit and Bobbi No-Nose met Mel's fate.

* * *

“Wise decision, turning on Bobbi like that,” Hancock said. He was sprawled out all casual-like over his couch, puffing at his jet inhaler like there hadn't just been an attempt at a coup d'etat. Though his sclerae were dark, MacCready could tell he was eyeing his hands and the new jewelry on his ring finger. It made a wave of anxiety and nausea roll in the pit of his stomach, and he shifted around in hopes of making his hands less obvious. “Whaddya think? Am I turning into the man? Some kind of tyrant?” he mused aloud. “I spend all of my time putting down the people I would've been proud to scheme with just a few years ago. I need to take a walk again. Get a grip on what really matters: living free.”

Julia blinked. She didn't know Hancock, so her blatant confusion made sense. “What about Goodneighbor?”

“Hey, the mayor is still the mayor whether he's “in residence” or not. I've walked out of here plenty of times. Keeps me honest. Can't let power get to my head. That's not what being in charge of Goodneighbor is about.”

Since she didn't say anything, he leaned forward.

“You may just be the right kind of trouble. Whaddya say?”

“I hate politicians, Mayor Hancock. I've spent my life trying to rip power away from people like you.”

Hancock blinked, dumbfounded. This was a charismatic standoff not even an entire tin of Mentats would help. "I can dig it, sister,” he finally said, sitting up straight. “Tell ya what: why don't you get cleaned up and relax or whatever you need to do, and we'll talk business. Nicky kind of left me an assignment I wanted to run by you.”

After an eternity of uncomfortable silence, she nodded curtly and headed out. MacCready nearly followed her until he felt a set of waxy, textured fingers around his wrist. Ah, shit. He was gonna ask. He knew it.

“What the hell happened between you and Sunshine?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Instead of wasting his breath explaining what Hancock likely already suspected, he took out the crumpled up certificate from his pocket and handed it to him. He couldn't look at it. Didn't want to look.

“Whoa... Mac, buddy... When I asked you to look after her, this wasn't what I meant.”

“Ya think?” he yelled, and immediately he heard the clicks of several rifles' safety latches being undone. Another deep breath to calm his voice down into a simmer. “She pissed McDonough off. Couldn't get back in the city on her own. It was her idea.” He sighed. “And then Piper... And then everyone found out and then the Priest was there... It all happened so fast.”

Hancock slid back into his couch, chest trembling with laughter. “Holy shit, brother. I mean, I've gotten into some deep shit before, but this... Wow.”

MacCready plopped back down on the couch, grabbed the nearby bottle of scotch and poured himself a generous glass. “Yeah.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Burn it?” He took a swig of the scotch. Tasted like rubbing alcohol. Perfect. “I don't know.”

“You're gonna have to go back to the green jewel sometime. What then?”

“People get divorced all the time, don't they? It's no big deal.”

Hancock was quiet at that.

“Besides, it's not like she's excited about it. She's a widow and she's got a kid to look for. Me leaving ain't exactly gonna break her heart.”

“She's got a kid, too?”

Aw, fuck. He forgot she hadn't told Hancock. And now he had to explain the whole damn situation, from prewar to cryo to the kidnapping and the freaky weirdness at the Memory Den. Just as he'd expected, Hancock was just as dumbstruck as he'd been when she'd told him. It was hard to surprise the ghoul into silence, and he'd just managed it.

“Look, I get why you and Nick are bending over backward for her, but I can't. I got too much to worry about. I got Duncan and...”

“Hey, don't sweat it, Mac,” he said in that soothing, raspy voice he'd often fallen asleep to. “I feel ya. Sometimes you gotta know when enough is enough.” Damn it. He wasn't going to ask him to stay the night. He definitely wasn't going to ask him to just fucking hold him for a while. But almost like he'd sensed it, Hancock's weight pushed down on the seat beside him, his heated arm wrapping around his shoulders. “That mean Sunshine is off the table?”

MacCready rolled his eyes and peeled his head off Hancock's shoulder. “Whatever floats your boat, buddy.”

“And what about us?”

He felt his face heat up again. Damn him. He knew the drill. With Hancock, nothing was serious when it came to trysts. So, why did he have to go and make him feel all... _mushy_ inside? MacCready got up and started for the door, ignoring the shit-eating grin on Hancock's face.

“Let me guess: Whatever floats my boat?”

“Shut the fu—... Just shut up.” And he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I plotted this chapter out and everything. But then things happened and it turned into this. Somebody stop me.
> 
> Tsundere Mac is too much to resist. "It's not like I like you or anything, b-baka..."


	4. Waltz for Zizi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready wonders who the real Julia is sometimes. The answer he finds is complicated. But will she keep her promise?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titled after The Seatbelts' "Waltz for Zizi."
> 
> Warning for a discussion of child death.

Fred Allen was on some tangent about some new idea he had for a chem. Whenever that guy wasn't high off his gourd, he was scrounging for novel ideas to get that way. MacCready sat at the Rexford lobby slurping the insipid, watery tato slop Clair had deemed her “breakfast surprise.” He was beginning to think he should just end his mercenary days and offer to become a cook here. There was something he'd discovered a while ago that Clair had been missing: a little thing called salt. Then again, he figured he should just be thankful he'd been able to eat three meals a day again for the first time in months. On a scale of Eclair to 10, the food was at a passable 3. He'd live.

A glance behind him made his stomach sink. Julia sat at the striped couch listening to Fred gab on, though she made eye contact with MacCready, only to look away. Another sign of guilt. Good. She _should_ be feeling guilty. MacCready huffed and turned back to his bowl. Not even hungry anymore.

“Thanks, Clair.”

The old woman grunted and he left for his room upstairs. What now? Sure, Hancock had given him the caps Julia hadn't been able to make from No-Nose's dig. But MacCready was done with her. The mere sight of her face made him want to shoot or punch or break something. And yet, she'd been the only person stupid enough to hire him, and only because she hadn't known who the Gunners were. He supposed that in the end, he'd been working for Hancock; however, the thought of being next to that woman for several more days made his stomach and chest hurt. She was foolhardy and bullheaded and, if she didn't end up getting him killed, she'd wind up making him _want _to kill himself.

He snapped at his lighter and held it over the marriage certificate, watching the flame lick and start to devour the crumpled up paper into blackness.

The sandpaper voice of a ghoul rattled outside the door.

“It's you! From Sanctuary Hills, right? Mrs... ah... Mrs. Cortéz!”

Silence and two retreating footsteps. The shadows of two pairs of legs peeked through the underside of the door.

“Yeah?” Julia's voice said. Quiet, trembling. “I'm from Sanctuary.”

_What the hell is Sanctuary?_

“What? You don't remember me?” the ghoul said angrily. “I sold you that space in the Vault! But then I wasn't on the list to get in! But look at you... Two hundred years and you're still perfect! _How? _How's that possible?”

Her shadow straightened. “What? You seriously don't know? They didn't _tell _you?”

“Tell me what? What is it? How did you get through the last 200 years untouched?”

The thick heels on her boots stomped forward. “It was a cryogenic facility. And I was the only one who thawed out alive. Wanna explain that to me?” That slight accent she had thickened at the _“aw”_ sounds.

“I... Vault-Tec never told me that! Unbelievable! But I had to get to the future the hard way. Living through the...filth! The...decay! And the bloodshed! Look at me! I'm a ghoul! A freak!”

Julia was quiet for a while and MacCready was suddenly uncomfortable for both of them.

“They just... left me there,” the ghoul continued. “After the bombs fell, and I came to, that bucket of bolts was still there! Trimming those fucking hedges like nothing had happened! '_Welcome to our happy home, sir. Can I get you a drink? Cheerio!'_ Just like that, over and over again. He was the only one still alive that I could talk to. A year went by and I couldn't take it anymore!” He sighed. “You know... you're the only other person I met from... before... I... uh... I....”

Was this guy crying?

“Oh god... I've been so alone here! No Commonwealth settlement wants a ghoul with 200 years of Vault-Tec sales experience!”

So why hadn't they reserved a spot for him? Then again, from what he'd seen in the Commonwealth and heard from the infamous Lone Wanderer, Vault-Tec hadn't exactly been known for their squeaky-clean scruples. Entire Vaults, designed to experiment and torture subjects who'd been none the wiser, subjects who'd thought they were escaping the horrors of the nuclear apocalypse. To leave one of their own to die wouldn't be too far fetched.

“There's a group there now,” Julia said in that weak, hushed tone. He noticed she spoke that way whenever she seemed conflicted about something. “In Sanctuary. They're nice people. If you go, they'll take you in. If you mention my name, I'm sure they'll let you stay.”

“Really?”

“I met them on my way to Concord. There'll be a man in a cowboy hat. Garvey. He'll know who I am. Just tell him I told you to stay there for a while. I, uh...” Her shadow was twisting, ghosting over the floor. “I'll come visit in a bit. I have to talk to him about something anyway.”

“You... You will?”

She must have nodded because he heard him sigh in relief. “Okay. I'll head over there right now. You promise you'll come visit, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay...” His figure was retreating. “I'll see... I'll see you there!”

Julia's shadow lingered under his door for a while, then turned toward it for a second and MacCready thought she would knock and try to coax him out of his funk. _Yeah, good luck with that, lady._ Instead, she left and shortly after, he heard the door to her room next door close. Cait's muffled brogue greeted her indistinctly, and when Julia spoke back there was no spark in her voice. There was none of the (obnoxious) effervescence he associated with her. Just flat, like a Nuka Cola that had been left out in the sun.

What was the deal with her, anyway? One minute she was mysterious and broody with this person, a charming seductress with another person, a clueless ditz with another, and with him, she was just... _on _all the time. A no-filter, nonstop chatterbox with rockets strapped to her feet, zooming from shit plan to shittier plan. Which one of those people was the real Julia?

It didn't matter, he decided, as long as he was getting paid.

Closer to night time, MacCready took the opportunity to use the communal shower at the other end of the Rexford. Most sane people waited until the sun warmed the water tank enough for it to not be freezing, but he found boiling some himself worked best. And since few were insane enough to shower at night, it meant he could take care of other, more pressing, _throbbing_ matters.

But there was chatter coming from behind the accordion door, and light pouring through. _Shit._ Who the hell was intruding on his alone time?

A shapely, pale, freckled ass was the first thing he saw the minute he opened the door, one with a familiar birthmark on the left hip. _Well, hello there, Cait. _

There was another figure. Human. Julia, sitting on one of the benches, wrapped in a towel as she poured a cupful of hot water over herself. What was this? One of those sexy harem bath-house places from the _Demon Sands _issue of Grognak?

Cait peered over, straightened up, and faced him. Suds slid off her muscular shoulders and arms, between her round, perky breasts, to her defined and scarred abdomen and dropped to the floor. He resisted the urge to hum in appreciation. She looked as proud of her body as she should be. She was stacked, powerful, and oozed sex appeal. Looked even better than during the few times they'd hooked up.

“Hey, there handsome. Lookin' to get cleaned up? Or you fixin' to get dirtier?” she asked, rubbing a soapy washcloth over her neck. This was the first time he'd seen her with her hair up. Cute hadn't been a word he'd associated with her until now. Made her face look young. Girlish, even.

She glanced at Julia, who was pulling her sopping wet towel further up under her armpits, avoiding all eye contact.

“Evening, Cait,” he greeted back all casual and polite and turned to peel off his undershirt. So Julia had thought the stunt back at the dig had been funny, had she? “Just turning in for the day. _Long, hard_ day at work.”

Cait hummed. “Oh, I know _all_ about it.”

He chuckled. Now that Cait was joining in, teasing Julia was even better. The buckle to his belt clinked as he unfastened it and he let it slide to the floor. “Oh, I bet you do. You're, uh, quite the rough rider, if I recall correctly. Fast and dangerous.”

“That memorable, am I? It keep ya up at night, thinkin' of me like that?” He heard her steps splashing against the puddles of water on the floor.

“You, Cait?” he peered at her from over his shoulder and offered her a wink. “You're _unforgettable.”_

Julia had her back facing him square on like she couldn't bear the slightest hint of his body. Who was shy now? MacCready finished getting undressed and reached for the boiled water in the barrel to scoop himself a cupful for his bath.

“You ole' charmer, you.”

“Hey, I do try.”

It wasn't the first time they'd been at least partially naked around each other; during their trips, one of them had to be the lookout while the other relieved themselves in the bushes or the trees. So, what was she getting all prudish about? There was nothing remotely sexual about hygiene. It was nothing like wearing flimsy, sheer lingerie and... _Aw, shit._

Cait kept chatting about the HalluciGen Inc. factory they'd just cleared out. Gunners everywhere. Good riddance.

“Good thing lass here worked there before all the bombs, or we couldn'ta gotten the jump on 'em! Knew all the secret tunnels, too.”

His stomach sank with dread. MacCready turned around. “Wait. You worked at HalluciGen?”

Julia wouldn't look at him.

“...Yes.”

“So, what? You were like some sick, mad scientist egghead or something?”

She reached for a cupful and poured it over her hair, which soaked most of it up. “Look, I don't think this is the right time to talk about this,” she said flatly.

“And why the fu—freak not?”

The acrylic cup tapped hard enough against the bench for it to echo when she set it down. “Let's start with the fact that we're cold, wet, and naked.”

Cait splashed herself one more time and then whistled. “Sounds like a lover's quarrel to me. Think I'll be tappin' out now and head to me room. Later, handsome.” She wrapped a towel around her waist and left them both. Alone. Here. _Lover's quarrel? _Wait, had she told Cait about Diamond City, too? Fuck!

“Listen, lady. I've followed you around because I needed the caps and I've gotten into more trouble than what I've been able to profit,” he took a seat next to her on the bench and her entire body scrunched up and away like a frightened, angry cat. “So if you can make yourself useful for once, then you need to tell me.”

She raised her hand to her eyes. “Please,” she said in a tiny voice. “...Please, if you could just—”

“Oh, no! Oh, does my dick being out _bother _you? Does it? _Really?”_ MacCready threw his towel over his lap.

“I get it, I do.” She lowered her hand and set it on her lap, but still wouldn't look at him. “And I'm sorry I did that to you back at the dig site. I am. It was inappropriate and inconsiderate.”

“Fu... Forget that! _Ha-llu-ci-Gen! _How are you connected?”

She moistened her lips. The artery at her neck trembled with her racing pulse. “Look. I'm not proud of everything I've done in my life, RJ,” she began, picking at the frayed loops of string at the bottom of her towel, “and HalluciGen is one of those things.”

If she thought taking her towel off was going to distract him... Well, she may have been partially right. But, she must have sensed it because she glanced at him quickly, before turning her gaze and nails to one of her cuticles. Picking, picking, picking.

“We thought... Well, MedTek thought it could do some good in the psychiatric industry. Use certain combinations of gasses to sedate people within some populations in psychiatric hospitals. Those with violent urges and delusions. You know, instead of—of _electroshock_ therapy, or... or lobotomies. So, they joined up with HalluciGen for a project.”

_MedTek? Did she say MedTek? _

A droplet of blood fell to her thigh where a large patch of skin was reddened and flaky, disappearing under the hem of the towel. Looked painful.

“But medicine wasn't what HalluciGen was after, in the end,” she scoffed. “No one cares about helping sick people. Not really. Not when you can make money off of it... Anyway, they, uh, they wanted a weapon. They wanted a way to control protesters and rioters and they had us... come up with this... grenade.” She bit her lip. “They... _We _were testing on average citizens without their knowledge. I thought—I thought the front desk had them sign disclaimers and waivers at the front, that they _knew, _but they didn't. They thought they were coming in for job interviews and they—” She sniffled. “We sedated them and... _So_ many people died, RJ.”

He swallowed the thick, dry lump in his throat.

“Look... I had my reasons for wanting a crowd-control grenade, too, you dig me? But what we did... Those people ain't deserve it.” A long, snake-like coil of hair fell over the front of her shoulder as her head drooped forward. “I left once we found out... I stole the plans and we left.” She huffed again, sardonic. “Turns out I'd been pregnant with my first back then and I didn't know and...”

Her voice began to crack and his eyes mimicked hers, brimming with tears.

“They couldn't revive her. Her lungs were too small. She was too small, RJ. And it should have been me. She didn't do anything wrong. It was _me._ It was my fault. I should have died instead, and she paid for what I did to all of those people.” She slumped over, elbows over her knees. “It should have been me.”

He rubbed away the tears streaming down his face, thankful she couldn't see him. There was no way of knowing whether this was one of her manipulation schemes or not. But, damn. If it was true, then... Then, she'd know. She'd know what it was like with Duncan. To watch one's child struggle, to pray to whoever would listen that this wouldn't be their last breath, that they'd be strong enough for another day. Only no one listened to her. He imagined her crying, begging, screaming her throat raw like he often did. And no one to answer her plea.

Watching Julia cry in a way so raw and open urged his hands to want to embrace her, bring her close to his chest, to comfort her, to provide her a fraction of the comfort she'd given him back at the abandoned comic book shop. But he held back. He couldn't trust her. Not just yet. So he just sat with her until she eventually calmed down, hiccuping in the silence between them.

“There. That's it. Now you know.”

MacCready nodded. He supposed he'd committed and allowed enough atrocities in the name of survival to not be in a position to judge her.

“Why'd you need it?” he asked. “The crowd-control grenade.”

She rolled her eyes. “What does it matter now?”

“How am I supposed to trust you when you could be some kind of... war criminal?”

She tilted her head, looking at him with puffy eyes and a swollen upper lip. “I guess I could be,” she admitted and gave him a half-smile indicative of self-derision. “But which side? That's the question.”

“You don't look Chinese.”

“How very astute of you to notice.”

“Or Russian.” She honestly didn't look much different from some of the people he'd met in the Capital Wasteland. So what other sides were there? The Enclave had fucked so much of the information up, it was hard to tell fact from propaganda. “Cuban?”

She laughed and shook her head. “No. But you're getting warmer.” Instead of waiting for him to guess correctly, she wrung the water out of her hair and stood up. There was that scent of hers again: clean, sweet, slightly spicy and earthy. “But you can be sure that our use of it wouldn't have harmed civilians. We targeted politicians. But...this is how it turned out. Can't change that. And nothing I ever did changed a damn thing anyway. Everything is exactly the same. Only no one hides it anymore.”

The fine hairs on her arms stood in tiny, tiny bumps all over her skin and she rubbed at one of them.

“Goodnight, RJ. And, um... Thank you. And I'm sorry.” She went to the door.

“You worked for MedTek, then?”

She stopped. “Yeah?”

“Then, help me.”

“What? Are you sick or something?”

“No, not me, godda—Ugh. No. It's my son. He's sick.” Her big brown eyes widened and drooped. She sat back down next to him. “I don't... I don't know what's wrong with him. One day, he's out playing out in the fields behind our farm...the next he took a fever and these blue boils popped up all over his body.” MacCready motioned a hand over his arm like he was drawing the lesions. Duncan had been so small and weak, crying for the pain to stop. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath, though he knew he couldn't trust his voice to be steady. “Last I saw he was almost too weak to walk. I didn't dare ask him to come with me.” Ah, shit. Now his lips were faltering and he felt heat consuming his eyes, prickling at the inside of his nose. “Honestly, I... I don't know how much longer he's going to last.”

The warmth of her hand enveloped his and he was back in his fort at Little Lamplight, after all the kids had gone to sleep and he was alone and tired and scared, where he could cry on his own without his fellow constituents witnessing his moments of weakness. MacCready grit his teeth together and bit down a sob, though in its silence it rattled though his body just the same. No, goddammit, not like this. He wasn't supposed to let her see him like this again but it burned and ached so badly. The long, sleepless nights of him trying to comfort a crying toddler who'd been in complete agony for so long, and with Lucy gone... Fuck. He was useless. Fucking useless.

“Hey... Let's finish up in here and get you warmed up, okay?” she murmured. “When you're done, knock at the wall and I'll come see you in your room.”

MacCready nodded, feeling the leadweight sensation of embarrassment tug at his stomach. Yet at the same time, he felt... lighter? Was that the word? His shoulders felt looser, arms unsteady but not as tight. Once she left, he finished washing up, although the water had long since cooled.

Dressed in freshly laundered long johns under a long sleeved shirt and some ripped sweats, he sat on his cot and toweled off his hair. Was it even worth it to call her over? Crying in front of someone else... MacCready didn't _do_ that. Robert Joseph MacCready held his own with a stiff upper lip. He took punches like anyone else, except he didn't sit and bitch about it. He got shit done and he did it with fucking surgical precision. However, Julia had managed to get him to strip bare on his own accord. Maybe by chance, but she'd made it easy. She'd seen him low and weak and trembling and she hadn't rejected him. Not yet anyway. There was always the chance that she'd slip away during his greatest time of need. And frankly, he expected her to.

A quiet knock.

“RJ?”

Just when he'd decided against calling her over. He could always tell her that it wasn't a big deal and that he'd just had too much to drink. Or he could make some sort of sexual comment to make her uncomfortable and push her away. Shit, he should have just waited and shown up naked to the door. That'd make her leave for good.

Julia stood there, dressed in some nightgown and a ratty gray sweater with undone buttons. Her curls had shrunk and increased in volume significantly since he'd seen her in the showers, and the scent on her had gotten stronger, leading him to conclude it was coming from whatever she used to get her hair that way.

“What is that smell?”

She gave herself a sniff as she walked in. “Oh... Daisy found me some cocoa butter. It's, um... It's a solid oily thing we used for skin problems back before... you know. It's the only thing keeping my hair from breaking off, to be honest. I should probably just chop it off before I run outta this stuff... —But I didn't come here to rant about beauty products.”

That thing on her leg had looked pretty uncomfortable. He imagined without aid it would be much worse and more prone to get infected. “Does it hurt?”

“What?”

“The rash.”

The corners of her lips turned down. “Oh. You saw.” She took a seat on his bed, leaning against the wall. “Sometimes, yeah. A lot. Sunlight makes it worse. Funny thing is, I saw a doctor here on the Commonwealth. Said I was getting better. I'm sick. Been sick for a long time now. It ain't contagious or nothing, but... Buffout usually helps, but you can't even find the ingredients to make it anymore, and it's so damn expensive nowadays... Anyway, the doc said the radiation was helping slow it down. But it means I'm more likely to catch things from other people, too.” She chuffed. “Just another one of those things I probably deserve.”

Yet, she'd been so keen about hopping into sewers like she'd _wanted _to catch a couple of parasites and a side of dysentery.

“So. Your son. How old is he? What's his name?”

He nearly flinched at the sudden turn of the spotlight. “Uh, Duncan. He's four. Five, in March.”

“Duncan,” she repeated in a soft coo.

“A few months before we met, I bumped into a guy named Sinclair who claimed his buddy caught some kind of disease. I thought he was wasting my time until he said his partner broke out in blue boils.” Those awful, awful blue furuncles that would burst and crust over, the kind of unbearable itch that led his poor child to cry himself hoarse. “They dug up information about a cure at a place called Med-Tek Research. Even managed to grab the building's lockdown security codes.” He swallowed. “But, uh... Unfortunately, his buddy died before they could break in. But... you know how to get in, right? You've heard of this... these blue boil things?”

Julia lowered her eyes and shook her head. “After... After I miscarried, uh... Nate wanted me to stay home. I quit six months before I ever got pregnant with Shaun, so it must have been shortly after...”

Because nothing was ever that easy. He'd been a fool to think so.

“But I'll help you look. If it's there, we'll find it. We'll scour the entire place and we'll find it. I have a few ideas of where it should be. But... It's... It'll probably be like HalluciGen, RJ. Med-Tek was...”

“I don't care. If it helps Duncan... I don't have anything else. This is all I got.”

She nodded. “We'll go. I promise.”

The way the muted light fell on her made her look so soft; out on the field, she was all danger and fire and explosions. Here, though, she almost looked... maternal? Was it strange to see her like that? The open sweater did nothing to hide how the nightgown clung to her skin, the thin fabric exposing the softness of her curves, the slope of breasts that were once full and how the chill of the wintry air was making the deep brown tips pucker in response, a soft belly that had once likely been taut. Faint silvery lines carved into the flesh of her chest, and he recalled seeing them on her arms and thighs before. He imagined the wasteland had been rough on someone accustomed to eating regularly. Julia was the vision of comfort incarnate and part of him wanted to envelop himself in her. Another side wanted to be the cause of her swelling and blossoming, heavy with child, like some fertility goddess and he wanted that side of himself to shut the hell up and learn some goddamn fucking shame.

The bed squeaked. Julia was heading for the door again and he wasn't sure whether he could admit he was disappointed. “I promised Nick to help him with something first. But, once we're done, we'll get to Med-Tek. Okay?”

He nodded, feeling dumb.

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Mm. Goodnight,” he muttered back.

What in the fuck of all fucks was wrong with him?

* * *

While Julia spent the day training with Cait, MacCready took the day to look for a way to make caps. Except no one had anything for him. No one had come in to bother Daisy. Hancock claimed the city had been quiet on his end since the deal with Bobbi No-Nose. With some begging and haggling, Rufus agreed to give him 200 caps in exchange for clearing The Shamrock Taphouse and bringing him back some stupid robot. Other than the idiot calling himself “Gaff” (the fuck kind of name was that supposed to be? Gaff?) the gig was an easy in-and-out; most gigs dealing with humans were, if one was patient enough and had a good vantage point.

That night, he went to The Third Rail as he often did and took a seat in a corner booth; no one could sneak up behind him in a corner. It was noisier than usual, though he hadn't thought it possible. One of the musicians was re-adjusting the mic Magnolia usually used. She started singing. Nothing new, just that one song of hers he really liked. She'd been singing it the day he'd met Julia if he recalled correctly.

Wait. Why did that matter all of a sudden?

“No fuckin' way,” he heard Cait say from outside.

“But, come oooon,” Julia added. Someone had started pre-gaming, from the sounds of it. “It'll be fun!”

“You're on your own, Vidal. I'm goin' to the Rexford to get me a proper ale.”

She sidled into the bar with an airy lightness to her steps, lending an extra wiggle to her hips that made him start to turn over in his trousers. The pants she wore nipped her in at the waist and hugged her ass and thighs like a glove. MacCready ripped his gaze from her body and tossed it into the empty whiskey glass in front of him. Yep. He should probably have some more.

He nearly spat it over the table when a drifter began howling into the microphone, hands around the mic like it was some kind of lover. MacCready wasn't sure whether it was a song, a mating call or the sounds of a dying animal. The onslaught of bad singing continued and, while Hancock seemed to find it amusing, it was giving him a headache. Why couldn't it just be quiet for a night? Was that so hard?

The way Julia leaned against the counter to talk to that synth detective, the way she tilted her head and flashed him her brilliant smile behind those plush red lips... Did she have a thing for Nick? Was that why she was helping him out first? What could he possibly need that took precedence over getting Duncan a cure? Couldn't he just get some duct tape and patch it up until she got back? Nick tipped his hat at her. What was he doing? Pretending this was some prewar shindig? Thinking he could get her panties all sopping wet with some old world customs? Bullshit. It was all bullshit.

Hancock began to whoop and cheer and when he looked, Julia had taken the stage.

When she began to sing in some foreign language, MacCready felt rooted to the spot, unable to look away. He felt like the first time he met Lucy that August afternoon on the Chesapeake Bay when he'd been three months away from seventeen. She'd been collecting seashells in her wet blue check dress and he'd thought she was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. Her sandy brown hair whipped around in the breeze as she stumbled about in the foam white surf and she'd given him a shy, crooked smile. He'd forgotten how to talk and the surf wound up knocking him over. He'd made the excuse he needed a specific seashell for some non-existing project just to talk to her but she'd asked him for a kiss in exchange. Until the day she'd been torn away from his arms, he could have honestly said he wouldn't have gotten tired of those lips. Even against the attentive lips of a fling, he found himself searching for the same sensation: the heat, the texture, the taste, the way she used to sigh and melt against him. But it wasn't the same. They weren't Lucy; none of them were. Not even close.

He took another sip and she'd moved to the dance floor with Magnolia, and Mags was looking up at her with the same expression Lucy used to look at him. Awe, admiration, complete infatuation like she couldn't believe Julia was real. Magnolia had given him that look before, usually in bed, while he loomed over her. She was good that way, making someone feel like they were the eighth wonder of the world and that she was lucky to have them to herself for a while. Julia looked nothing but mildly amused, if that smirk was anything to go by. And that look alone made his heart clench. In fact, it was the look she'd given him in the VIP room. Yeah. Amused was the word.

Was that what she thought of him? That he was amusing? Like some kind of child she was humoring?

The song ended and Julia swept Magnolia down in some dramatic flourish. Magnolia drew her lips to hers and his chest clenched again, though he wasn't sure why anymore. Magnolia wasn't his; she didn't belong to anyone. And Julia was... Julia. She was obnoxious and more trouble than she was worth and—

“Wow,” she laughed, taking a seat in front of him. Why wasn't today over already? He could have stayed at the Rexford, gotten a drink with Buddy and fucked with Cait while Julia was gone. “I've never really been big on kissing, but... Is it weird that was... nice?”

MacCready scowled at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean that it was nice! It didn't feel like I was... you know... suffocating or anything.”

What the fuck kind of people had she been kissing? Did prewar folks kiss differently or something?

Julia guffawed and snorted and nearly hit her forehead on the table. Should probably go a little easier on the wine. “Your face, man... It's priceless.” Had he been making a face? There it was again: that look. As if she wasn't fully smiling, but had something glittering in her eyes. What was it? Derision? Mischief?

Before he could make one of his witty comebacks, she was off to drag Nick to the dance floor and the Robo-Cop looked far too pleased to sweep her off her feet. Prewar dances must have been programmed into his memory or something. Their movements were like the rippling flow of a stream: slow, fluid, steady. The only time their bodies separated was when Nick twirled her around, much to her giggling. She was _giggling._ When had she ever giggled?

Perhaps she saw a lot of her husband in Nick's personality. He was as old-fashioned as one got: taking his hat off in front of women, pulling out seats and holding doors, referring to strangers as sir or ma'am. Nick could have been her little piece of prewar heaven. What was so great about prewar days, anyway? They'd nuked the entire place to hell, and Julia'd hated the establishment there. She'd said so herself. So why the nostalgia? Why look back? Why not see what was right in front of her?

_Oh, no._

No, not him. He wasn't _jealous. _Now, why would he be jealous of Nick? He probably couldn't even grab a tit without clawing it to death. Though maybe she was into that.

“Here. Come dance with me.” She held her hand out to him. Behind her, he saw Nick leave in a hurry. Probably had a problem with his hardware. _Ha. Hardware. That was a good one—Wait, what?_

Every muscle in his body tensed. “Uh, no. Not happening.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I don't dance.” Never had and never would. He'd tried once, with Lucy. Square-dancing, if he recalled. Ended up with a few dirt clods in his mouth.

Julia pouted, _pouted _like some petulant brat who'd been denied a sweetroll. “Aw. Oh, well.”

“Oh, come on, now, Mac.” Great. Now Hancock had added himself to the fray. “The lady just asked you to dance.”

“I don't fu—freaking dance. I just wanna drink alone.” What was so damn hard to understand about that?

He grunted, hands at his buckle like he wanted to have a measuring contest. “I'll dance with ya, Sunshine,” he said, not breaking eye contact with him. “And pick out a good one. That song you danced with Nicky was too easy. I want somethin' I can really move to, ya dig?”

Oh, man. This was gonna be good. It was, what? 11:35? Hancock was usually completely trashed by now. The man wasn't graceful while sober; as if he could dance to some complicated, foreign quick step when his mere breath was that flammable. And, just as he'd thought, Hancock was moving, alright. All over Julia's feet. Every few steps, she gave a pained grunt when he'd catch her foot under his. But instead of being angry, she was laughing, tossing her head back like she was having a blast. Julia never laughed like that around him; not unless something happened to him, or he reacted in a certain way. His puns were plenty funny, thank you very much. He could always take a shot with his Hemingway jokes... Nah. Her husband had gotten a round to the head; too dark, too personal.

Through the sea of dancing drifters, he saw Hancock place a plastic flower in her hair: red, just like her lips. And he was looking at her with heat in his nearly black eyes he seldom saw in Hancock. Except maybe with MacCready himself. He knew exactly what'd come next: a caress to the cheek, a smile on those jagged lips, and he'd lean over and say, “Let's you and me get outta here, huh?” That signature pickup line.

Only Julia gripped his hand from her cheek, although gingerly, held it at her side, tilted her head and shook it with a smile near apologetic. Her lips moved in unheard words that made Hancock's smile fade into one of disappointment, tempered with understanding. Because damn if John Hancock wasn't a hell of a stand-up guy. The warmth in his eyes was still there; MacCready could feel it from across the room as Hancock watched her walk away.

His eyes met Julia's and he swore time froze around him. What was she thinking? He never quite knew. She talked so much, he often thought it was a defense mechanism, hiding behind a wall of noise and confusion so he never figured her out. And then there were times like these, when she was silent and cautious, taking everything in, peeling back layers until she saw nothing but rotting bones and missing puzzle pieces. But what did she see in him?

Why did it matter?

She gave him a weak attempt at a smile and left the bar.

Perhaps, he should have followed her. But he didn't. He sat alone, in the same booth, nursing at his bottle of whiskey, wondering what just the hell was wrong with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Suggestions? Complaints? 
> 
> Feedback feeds the author in me.


	5. Gloomy Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't want her to leave him behind. She never said she was a good person. And now he knows more than he ever wanted to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of drug use and a reference to underage sex (Little Lamplight)

The morning after while soothing his headache with some of the hair of the mutant hound that bit him, he caught sight of Cait all bundled up and heading out with a heavy bag. Claimed she was going to someplace called Sanctuary. Now, where had he heard that name before? She mentioned helping other people get settled in and boosting defenses. So, she'd gotten a decent gig. Good for her, getting out of the ring and out on her own. She deserved it after all the shit she'd endured.

“See ya 'round, handsome.”

“Good luck, Cait.”

“Don't need it. That's what me guns are for.”

Shame he hadn't taken her up on her previous offer, now that he thought about it. Hell of a woman, that Cait.

Nick Valentine swung by the lobby at around noon, strutting in his tan overcoat and fedora like he was some private dick from one of those prewar holos. It weirded MacCready out that he could look so broken and literally mechanical (did no one else see the metal frame and sprockets peeking through the missing panels of synthetic skin on his neck and face, or was he just that much of a superficial asshole?) and yet act so... human? Sort of. Like, did he actually _like_ that hat? Or was he programmed to? And why did he smoke? Did he get anything out of it? Or was he just mimicking what a human would do? By now MacCready was old enough to know asking would be rude and guaranteed a well-deserved tongue lashing. (Did Nick even have a tongue? Did it work, taste-wise? Could he use it... for other things? Yes, these were the questions that kept RJ MacCready up at night.)

“Ready to split?” Julia was carrying a bag, too. Was she going on a trip?

“Yeah. I've been dying to put a bow on this already,” Nick said.

She swiveled toward MacCready. “If everything goes well, I'll be back at the end of the week. We'll be near Diamond City, tying up some loose ends.”

Diamond City? How did she expect to get in? He snorted. “You gonna rope him into marrying you, too?” It'd been an off the cuff, in the moment, funny remark about an old mishap, but he hadn't quite thought it through. This wasn't him. He didn't _do_ careless. That was _her _department.

Her semblance of calm hardened, a crease deepening between her eyebrows.

“What's he talking about?” Nick asked.

“Nothing,” she said, fumbling with her bag. “I'll fill you in on our way out.” But before she turned to leave, she glanced back at MacCready with mischief glittering in the darkness of her eyes, dancing along the corners of her lips. “Although if you're so worried about it, you can always tag along.”

“What? Psh. Why would I be worried?” He was not blushing. He was definitely not blushing. Nope. He was calm and this conversation was casual and it would be over soon.

She shrugged. “I dunno. Jealous, maybe?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

He laughed. And laughed. And kept laughing. And soon he realized it was out of panic because for once, he had nothing to say in return because, goddammit, what if she was right and he was jealous and he was throwing a tantrum like some kind of child and that was exactly what she thought of him and he wasn't a child; he wasn't; he was a goddamn fucking adult with a child of his own and responsibilities and a bounty on his head thanks to the Gunners and the capability to think before he acted. Except now. Fucking hell.

Great. Now, she was laughing too. At least she had the decency to cover her mouth and act like she hadn't just been teasing him.

“Look, I know work is slow here, so I'm serious. You wanna tag along, all you gotta do is say the word. You can stay in Diamond City while Nick and I finish the job. Right?”

Nick shrugged. “No skin off my back.”

Synth puns. He could respect that.

“And then we can go take care of that... thing we talked about.”

Med-Tek. Was she not telling Nick? From the way his glowing yellow eyes shifted around, the answer was no.

Should he go? It might give rise to the suspicion of jealousy. Then again, there were caps in Diamond City. It'd been long enough that few would remember his Gunner days—those who were lowly enough to need his kind of services, that was. The higher-ups might recall things a little differently. But, he knew how to lay low and hide in plain sight. And, maybe Julia would have a hard time getting in without him, anyway. So, maybe it was for the best.

* * *

She didn't tell Nick. In fact, other than Nick pelting him with a million and three questions, she didn't mention much about the two of them. He wasn't too bad, other than that. Just a lot of Julia and Nick reminiscing about old times, making jokes MacCready couldn't relate to. So, during their trip, he mostly kept to himself and napped in the back of the caravan wagon.

While they were away getting that Winters guy, MacCready spent his time drinking with the Bobrov brothers, avoiding Piper, eating twice his weight in noodles, browsing for rifle mods, and avoiding Piper. Had he mentioned he was avoiding Piper? Because he was.

“What happened to your bride, MacCready?” said that high-pitched, Diamond City accent he'd come to abhor. Piper. Shit on a stick.

He spun around with the mod in hand and scrounged up his best attempt at a polite smile like that question didn't hurt him in more than one way. “Why? Were you thinking of doing that one-on-one with me now?”

Piper sneered up at him. “I already told you. Not in a million years.”

He shrugged. “Stranger things have happened, angel.”

“Seriously. Where is she? You didn't break her heart, did you?”

He tried not to grind his jagged teeth together. This whole debacle had been partially her fault for getting involved in Julia's business. Had it not been for Piper, their last visit would have been another run of the mill errand. “She's with Nick, running an errand. Check with Ellie, if you don't believe me.”

Her hazel eyes scanned him from bottom to top, her full lips set in a deep frown. “I don't, and I will.”

What was it with her, anyway? She didn't like him and that was perfectly fine with him. But she seemed to buzz around him like a bloatfly on a turd. He tipped the brim of his hat at her and, after setting the mod back down, he said, “I'm gonna go now.”

A few steps later and he heard her sigh. “No, wait...” When he turned she was massaging her temples. “Listen. I care about Blue. She's been through hell and back and I just... I don't want her to have to go through more pain than she already has to, okay?” Another sigh. “You got a clean place to stay? Because you two can always use Nat's room. She likes the couch more, anyway.”

“I'm not talking to you about my sex life, Piper.”

Her mouth gaped as she groped for words. “Oh, you're such a pig, you know that? I was trying to be nice to you for Blue's sake, but, you know what? Forget it.”

“Even though it is _a-ma-zing,”_ he pressed on.

“Go to hell, MacCready!” she called from afar.

By the eighth day, MacCready was ready to crawl up the walls and pull out his hair. Where was she? She'd said she'd be back by the end of the week, and that was when the plan had involved him staying in Goodneighbor. On the ninth day, he'd gone through two packs of cigarettes in a day. He paced around the market, not even hungry anymore with the leaden anxiety weighing his stomach down. Through the crowded streets, he accidentally made eye contact with Piper, and he nearly bit his tongue off.

“Still out?” she asked on approaching him, much to his dismay.

He grunted in response, lighting up another cigarette with shaky hands. What if she'd left him here on purpose? He supposed he could make more money in Diamond City, but what if she decided to keep him away from Med-Tek? What if she'd gone back on her promise? He should have known better than to trust her. She was a habitual liar, always putting on a show. He'd fallen for her charms and tears and foolishly believed she'd help him out of the supposed goodness of her heart—when MacCready had known better than anyone that no one did that. Human beings were inherently selfish, no matter what anyone said.

“She'll come back. She's one of the good ones, you know,” she said. “And Nick is a sweetheart. He would never try to make a move on her.”

Ha. If Julia wanted to get her rocks off with Nick Valentine, that was no business of his. Though... could he? —No, he didn't want to know that.

“You know she stood up for Nat and me without even knowing us? She'd never even seen Nat and you should have seen her, Mac. She got this look in her eye. Like... flames, right?” She mimed it with her fingers. “It was this look of... justice. I just knew right then and there. Blue is a keeper. And the way she risked her life for Nick. She's just _so _strong. She's amazing. I mean, Nat's convinced she's an incarnation of Femme-Rat or something.”

_Femme-Ra. The incarnation of Femme-Ra._ Though he didn't expect Piper to be the comic book type; she was far too entangled in her own idealism to lose herself in some other fiction.

“Anyway, she'll come back. You'll see. I gotta go. Nat's going through one of those phases again and I swear she'll bite my head off if I bring her cold noodles again.” She excused herself and left.

The first civil conversation with Piper and it had been a monologue. Maybe he was the problem, after all, he thought.

Day eleven and he was in his room, cleaning his rifle for the third time today, disassembling it, putting it back together, disassembling it again, putting it back together. His calloused fingers knew each line, groove, and curve of each part. He could probably do it blindfolded by now. No wonder he'd convinced Lucy he was a soldier.

His heart clenched at the thought.

The doorknob clattered as it turned and he was quick to aim it at the intruder. Julia. She had a large metal weapon strapped to her back that barely fit through the door as she walked in. The skin under her eyes was dark gray and sunken, and her lips, normally darker than the rest of her skin, were pale and cracked. Her cheekbones were more prominent than when he last saw her. Whatever had gone down, it hadn't been good.

“Got you a present,” she mumbled. She placed a bag on the desk and ambled toward the bed.

Pulling the string, his heart leaped in his chest at the sight of eight mini-nukes. Now the gargantuan weapon she'd set down on the floor made more sense. This was so much better than Christmas at Little Lamplight. “Ohoho. MacCready like big boom,” he chuckled.

Not even a snort. She was facing the wall, curled up on her side.

“Where's Nick?”

She was still and quiet for some time, and then she pulled the covers over her body. “The agency.”

Other than that, she didn't offer up any more information. Whenever Julia retreated into silence, it left him feeling unsteady, like things in the universe were off-kilter. Though he'd never voice it, he much more preferred her casual teasing and rambling; it'd become strangely comforting in the month and a half they'd spent together.

“I gotta go back to Sanctuary soon... My son... He's still... He's all I have now.”

That much he'd understood from her circumstances. But she sounded like she'd gained something else in the time she'd been awake. And now that very thing was gone. Maybe she did have a thing for Nick. He approached the bed and sat on the floor, facing away from her. “What happened with Nick?”

A sigh, but he didn't hear her turn around. “...I hurt him. Bad.”

“Couldn'ta been that bad, boss. Nick's got a heart of steel.” _Literally._

Her clothes swished against the mattress and it dipped briefly. “He's been the only one to help me out of the goodness of his heart. Didn't ask me for anything to help me look for my son. And he's gotten nothing but hell out of this.”

That he could believe. If shattered mirrors were bad luck, Julia was a carnival fun-house with bullets ricocheting on the inside.

“Yeah, I'm not seeing how that puts it on you. Nick knew rolling with you was like tipping the salt shaker over.”

She snorted. Good. Some humor at last. Being quiet and sullen didn't suit her. Julia was bubbly and active and helpful and she didn't give a shit about anyone's opinion and maybe that was why he found himself so... not pissed at her?

“What if... Shaun doesn't want to see me?”

That jabbed at his chest. It was a fear most parents had when being away from their little ones for so long. It had been two years with Duncan. But, at least ten had gone by since Julia and her son had seen each other. At the age of ten, MacCready had already taken up the rifle and become mayor of Little Lamplight. He'd given thought about who his parents might have been during his earlier years. Five, six... Ten years was a long time. By ten, he no longer cared what sob story they had. By ten, he was too far gone to ever be able to forgive them for abandoning him. But at that point, he'd known he'd been abandoned. Not kidnapped or orphaned. Abandoned. Thrown away like yesterday's trash.

“What if he's better off without me?”

“He's not. Trust me.”

“You don't get it... I wasn't ready. I... I don't know that I'll ever be ready. Maybe he's happier—”

“Look, he would want to see you, okay? Trust me on this one.” He leaned his head back against the mattress. “It'll probably take some time... But he'll want to know you didn't abandon him... He needs to know that. More than anything.”

A few beats of silence went by.

“I grew up in a place called Little Lamplight back in the Capital Wasteland with a bunch of other kids. A lot of them were born there. And then, there were those like me, dropped off. The Wasteland is harsh and all that, but... I think I would have wanted to see who my mom was. Even if I didn't want to see her again... I think it would have given me closure.”

Then again, she was doing the opposite. There was no telling whether her kid even knew she existed. He could potentially have adoptive parents passing him off as their biological child.

“You deserved better,” she said and when he turned his head, she had her mouth under the covers, eyes glazed with tears.

He rolled his eyes. “Hey. I've managed just fine for 22 years.”

She sat up. “Twenty-two? You're 22?”

“Yeah?”

Her hands came up to her face. “Oh, sweet Jesus, I'm old.”

He snorted. “I doubt being in the freezer counts.”

“I'm 33. Biologically.”

Strange. Most people had some visible wear by their early thirties. Radiation, chems, malnutrition, and stress took a toll on the average drifter's body. It truly must have been a different time for her to look so good at that age.

“If we'd been born during the same era, I'd be getting my first legal drink while you were off...I dunno. Playing with toy dinosaurs or something.”

“Tch'yeah right. Try shooting the head off my first Super Mutant.” Her mouth parted in a grimace. “And getting my first...” He closed his fist and waved it over his lap.

“Oh, Mac, _no.”_ Her mouth fell open, aghast.

“What? That was pretty late for Little Lamplight. Anyway... We had this rule. After you turned sixteen, you packed up and left.”

“So there were no adults there? At all?”

“We couldn't trust them. Being an adult changes people. And not always for the good.”

Julia seemed a little less horrified, though there was that crease between her eyebrows again. “I can't imagine.”

“We always managed. Everyone pulled their own weight. Just like any other colony. We all had assigned jobs, and we watched each other's backs.” He cracked a smile. “Can you believe I was actually the mayor for a while?”

“What? Seriously?”

“Yup. Age ten. Punched the previous mayor in the face for abuse of power. Pretty much ran the place until I turned sixteen.”

He heard Julia lay back. Her arm was over her head like she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

“Anyone who wanted to step up could take the title from me. But turns out people liked me too much for knocking Princess' face in.”

“Okay, now you're pullin' my leg,” she laughed.

“Look, a frozen popsicle has no business telling me my story is made up.”

She nodded. “Fair enough.”

They shared a laugh at how ridiculous it all was: the ludicrous combination of circumstances that had led them to cross paths, the cruel fates that had brought them together.

* * *

Julia didn't speak much on their trip to Med-Tek, though it could have been the gelid breezes she was hiding from under her scarves and mufflers. A little excessive in his opinion, though he supposed he was accustomed to Januaries in the Northeast. From what little he could see through her hat and coat and scarves, she kept staring up at a creamy swath of stars painted across the obsidian sky, cracking the darkness apart in a nebulous glow.

“You're gonna trip and fall on your butt if you don't watch where you're going,” he warned.

She hummed in acknowledgment and faced forward. “I haven't seen it in years.”

“The sky?”

“The Milky Way. Can't see it in the city, y'know? Because of all the lights? But I saw it once. Visiting my grandparents in the countryside. Still takes my breath away.”

He didn't see what the big deal was. Then again, he'd lived in the Commonwealth for two years, so maybe he'd gotten used to it by now. Maybe it was similar to how he felt coming out of Little Lamplight for the first time and getting to see how big everything was. He'd read about stars and galaxies in old textbooks, but to take it all in with his own eyes... That had been quite the experience.

The green patina of the Med-Tek building peeked over the horizon and MacCready felt his legs go heavy at the sight. This was it, wasn't it? It was now or never. _Let's hope Sinclair's information pays off,_ he thought.

She pulled down her scarf. “You should know that there are probably ghouls in there. Feral ones.” Though she kept her jaw tight, he saw the nervous flare of nostrils striving to control her breathing. “They, uh... They had ways to keep us in. Keep productivity up, company secrets in.”

“I'll be fine,” he assured her. This wouldn't be a repetition of Hubris Comics. He was here with a resolute purpose and he knew what to expect. “You?”

She nodded but didn't meet his eye.

Sinclair had claimed the only way to override the lockdown—which was likely what Julia had been referencing—was through the executive terminal. Aside from the terminal claiming no one was to leave on pain of death, and the long-since fallen aluminum reliefs, the reception area was dark, dusty (So fucking dusty. Had no one heard of a vacuum cleaner?) and strangely quiet. His eyes were starting to itch and the top of his lip felt dry and tight already. He was starting to regret not bringing a mask. Should have looted Bobbi's when they had the chance. He pocketed the chems he found near the bathroom because why waste a good opportunity to make a few caps in Goodneighbor?

It was then he noticed Julia crouched over a mummified body leaned over a toilet. Upon turning it over, the lapel on the lab coat read, "Briggs."

"Someone you knew?"

"Yeah." Her voice was hushed, but she didn't explain.

He didn't ask her to.

There was another body, dressed in a pink dress, by the airlock decontamination arches, but she stepped over it like it was a stranger. Or perhaps she knew whose body it was and it simply didn't matter to her. In any case, she went to the terminal and began typing at it. Several attempts later, she shook her head.

"Gonna have to go another way."

The door next to the arches was open, but in the green light of Julia's Pip-boy, MacCready caught sight of something skittering away. Before he could aim, the figured turned and trudged their way. With a swift downward hack of her machete, Julia cut the feral's head in half and kept walking.

Past the bathrooms and up the stairs, more ferals awaited them, but she caught most of them head-on, while he sniped the largest ones from a distance. They both agreed explosives were a bad idea here since the stairs and walkways had collapsed and were barely holding together as it was. If they could keep working in tandem the way they were, they'd be fine. As long as the ferals didn't gang up on him, he would be fine, they'd get the cure and they could leave as soon as possible. Yep. Everything was going to be fine. He wiped his sweaty hands over his duster and readjusted his grip on his rifle. Everything was fine.

The executive terminal sat across from a gap in the floor. After gunning down the ghoul behind the desk, Julia leaped over the gap and vaulted over the desk.

If Sinclair's password didn't work, they were screwed. He chewed at what was left of his thumb's nail, trying to ignore the unsettled acid burbling in his stomach. He gritted his teeth when the clacking at the keyboard stopped. He couldn't quite make out her expression in the dark, but he saw her nod, much to his relief.

“It's probably in the sub-level,” she said. “It's...where I used to work.”

There was no hint of pride in that statement. Instead, he detected shame. And, if locking down their own employees hadn't been the worst thing they'd done, then it made sense why she'd feel that way.

“I just wanna get the cure and get out of here. I didn't drag you here to lecture you on ethics.”

They climbed down to the lower levels through the cracks, although Julia refused to even try to squeeze herself through some of them, and opted for the stairs whenever possible. He figured he was smaller—both in height and in frame—so slinking between small gaps came as naturally to him as it did to a cat. Plus, he didn't have the extra padding associated with the stereotypical female form.

While he looted the fusion cores, Mentats (holy shit, there were Mentats _everywhere) _and ammo, he noticed she had stopped behind a terminal with another body slumped over the desk. Another former coworker? Whatever. If she wanted to take a run down her nightmarish memory lane, that was her business.

“Our group was working on something called Fixer. Kinda like Addictol, but not as effective,” she admitted.

“What was the point in that?”

“It meant something else people were addicted to. Fixer could help you pass a drug test for a few days, help you with withdrawal for a few days. And it was cheaper than Addictol. But within like four, five days? You were back on whatever chems you craved, or worse. It was like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound.” He saw her throat working to swallow. “Did a lot for our sales, but...”

That was dirty. Though he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Would he have done the same, if it meant getting Duncan everything he wanted and needed? Then again, what would prewar people need that they didn't already have? Clean water, real food, houses, medicine... What else would they need that they had to scam others like this?

“Team I was on was in charge of, uh...” She laughed. Sounded bitter. “They called it 'urban outreach.' Basically meant they wanted us to target people who looked like me.”

So, people who were hot? He narrowed his eyes. That was a weird marketing strategy.

She shook her head and sighed. “Nevermind.”

Going past another set of airlocks, they reached a set of closed-off rooms. He heard Julia mutter something like a curse to herself, but he didn't quite catch what it was. MacCready attempted to pry one of the rooms open.

A gnarled hand reached out through the doors and swiped its nails across his face, hooking onto the fabric of his duster. He screamed, knees buckling under him, but the grip on his coat was steady. He dug his fingers into the arm, but the decaying flesh gave way, pressing under his nails, slimy and gelatinous until he touched bone. He gagged from the smell. Thick and heavy and somehow sickly sweet.

Screaming.

The cold air licked at the back of his neck.

Lucy.

Blood whooshed in his ears and he heard nothing.

Fingers shredding into her muscles. Tearing.

She'd told him to go away.

She'd told him to run with Duncan.

But she needed him.

And he'd left.

He'd left her to die and he hadn't looked back.

The sharp sting of a needle to his neck had him grasping whatever was in front of him.

“MacCready!” shouted a voice too firm to have been Lucy's. A pair of dark eyes were staring back at him, wide. His hand was around Julia's neck. Hers was wrapped around his wrist and slowly, slowly he began to loosen his grip, and so did she. There was a cold sensation around his hand, the one with the feral ghoul flesh under the nails. A bottle of vodka was tipped in her grip; after she set it down, she took a wet rag and cleaned the gunk away. His chest still hurt, heart pounding painfully under his ribcage, but the cool sensation was grounding him.

She said something about a holding cell, but nothing was making sense just yet.

“Need a minute?”

He nodded and slumped back against the wall, eyes closing. He could hear her walking around, heavy objects scraping against the floor when she moved them. No shuffling around. No more ferals. They were safe. For now.

Sometime later, he felt something small, icy and hard on his palm... Metal. When he looked, there was a steel, X-shaped toy in his hand. Julia had a few more in her hand.

“Found them in one of the cells. I used to play with these as a kid. We called them 'jacks,' but I think some folks called them knucklebones.”

He squeezed it, and the rounded points pressed into his skin. A strangely pleasant sensation, so he did it again.

“I'll teach you how to play once we get out of here. But, uh... I used to carry dice in my pocket. Whenever I'd have one of those... spells, y'know? I'd squeeze one of them in my hand. Until it hurt a little, y'know? And it would kinda...” She knocked some debris over with her boot. “Bring me back.”

She wasn't looking at him when she said that, and he was thankful for it. He would have mistaken it for pity.

“Did you know about these cells?”

She nodded.

“They were bringing in criminals at first. Multiple offenders. Violent type. Serial killers and rapists. It's who we tested the Fixer on. 'Til the prisons figured they could stand to make a profit from selling inmates. And then the higher-ups decided they needed to make cuts, so they had folks raking junkies off the street. Promised them good chems, three hots, and a clean cot.”

From the looks of it, they kept up their end of the bargain. The mattresses here were the cleanest he'd ever laid eyes on.

“It was more than most people in the poor sides of town had, so... we got a lot of willing subjects.”

Had Med-Tek still been up and running, they'd probably be targeting people from Goodneighbor, the folks in the Lower Stands in Diamond City, pretty much everyone outside the cities. Him. It could have been in him one of these cells, waiting for another hit. Or for his last.

“What I don't get is how this fits in with your whole 'mad-at-the-world' stance.”

He saw her eyebrows twitch as if he'd stabbed her and she was holding back a scream. Like he'd cut past all her bullshit and gotten to the naked heart of the problem. But still, she didn't reply. She just kept on walking to the elevator.

The doors slid open, hitting him with the sour, musty smell of mold and decaying flesh. His eyes watered and he nearly gagged again. The sooner they got the cure, the sooner they could get the hell out of there.

“There were turrets here,” she said, holding her muffler over her nose. “Watch your step.”

She peered out through one door, then dashed to the other side where the terminal was. The turret sprayed a few bullets onto the floor, having detected her movement, but a few clicks of the keyboard made the whirring power down.

He squeezed the metal jack in his hand before going into the next room after her. The blade of her machete glinted with each stockade, slicing through rotting flesh and brittle bones like a knife through brahmin butter. His bullets kept the mutated ferals from getting too close to them.

There was a pair of dumpsters in one of the lower rooms. She slid one of the doors open, only to drop it with a loud clang. “Oh, Jesus...”

“What?”

“There's... bodies. Nothing but bodies.”

Wasn't she used to corpses by now? This entire facility was nothing but a death sentence to the average human being.

“These... These weren't here when I used to work here. You don't understand. We didn't have this much of a fatality rate... Sure, we had people with side effects, but few ever died. Never this many. Not enough to fill a dumpster.”

Then it must have been something else they were working on. Stepping over a few feral ghouls and desiccated bodies, they reached the last room and Julia got to work on the terminal. He rummaged through the fridges, only to find bones. Random human bones. The terminal's keyboard stopped clattering, prompting him to investigate.

Julia shook her head and kept typing. Her eyes scanned the screen. Her breath hitched and she kept typing.

“What is it? Is it not there?”

“No, no, no...” She tugged at her hair.

The knot in his stomach snapped and he started to feel dizzy. _Please don't tell me we came here for nothing. _“Talk to me! What's going on?”

“_Fuck!”_

“Julia!” He had her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. And he wasn't liking the look in her eyes. There was panic propping them open and something else that made his hackles rise.

Her lips parted to speak and faltered like she was withholding information.“I know what it is now,” she managed, voice tight. “And there's a cure.”

An involuntary sigh left him and he loosened his grip on her. Then, he'd done it. This was it. Duncan was going to get his cure. He could finally leave the shithole Commonwealth and be with his baby boy and watch him grow up. MacCready laughed. Oh, it was over. Finally. It was over. He leaned over the counter. The weight of the world was draining through his feet and he wasn't sure he was strong enough to keep himself upright anymore.

The bones of a skeleton clicked against the counter as she moved its arm aside. She held up a red bottle with a needle, marked with the word “Prevent.”

“This is it.”

So small and light in his hand. All of these years of uncertainty and hunger and need and pain and the answer to all his biggest problems were in such a tiny bottle. He wrapped it up in several cloths before stuffing it into his bag.

“We did it,” he sighed incredulously. “Holy crap. We actually did it!” His voice broke, but he didn't care. “We just gave Duncan a fighting chance to live.”

When he looked for her, she was going through the fridges he'd just searched.

“I don't know how I'll ever be able to pay you back for this... I owe you big time. We get this to Daisy and she'll make sure Duncan gets it on time.”

“You don't owe me shit, MacCready.”

“Sure, I do. Listen... you don't know how much this has been weighing on me. Duncan is the most important thing in my life. And you saved him.”

The door to the fridge slammed shut. Her hands slid out of her pockets. “Let's just get out of here already,” she spat. She swiped a card through an electronic slot, opening up an elevator shaft to climb out of.

All he needed to do was get the cure to Daisy and she'd get it into Duncan's caretaker's hands. And then... And maybe then...

Quite frankly, he hadn't thought he'd get this far. Last time he'd tried, the ferals nearly chewed him up to bits. The Capital Wasteland was no place for Duncan to stay, not with the Brotherhood of Steel running the show. There was no doubt they'd try and recruit him as soon as he was healthy and there was no way in hell MacCready would let those bastards have him.

He supposed he had time to think about it while he finished up business here. The Gunners were still after him and he couldn't have them tracking him back to Duncan.

The pavement rumbled under his feet. What the hell? There were no signs of a storm in the clear skies, nor an explosion. An earthquake? Those were rare here.

“What is that thing?” Julia asked.

A massive dirigible floated over the skies, obscuring the stars from view. Blinding searchlights scanned the roads, and motorized propellers made his ears pop from the pressure. The familiar sound of vertibirds chopping through the air.

“_People of the Commonwealth,”_ a thundering voice boomed out over an intercom. _“Do not interfere. Our intentions are peaceful.”_

“Oh, you've gotta be shitting me,” she said.

God, how he wished it was so. Just when he'd thought his problems were over, seven more had to pop back up.

“_We are the Brotherhood of Steel.”_

Fuck! Fucking shit! What the hell were they doing here anyway?

“What is that? A blimp cult?”

He snorted. “Close enough. We should get out of here before they try to recruit us. Ain't enough caps in the Commonwealth to make me join up with them.”

She gave him a curious look with her head tilted just so. “I brought Fat Man with me. I was planning to hit Med-Tek with it, but I think this is a better target.”

Yeah. That would piss them off enough to hunt him and his loved ones down. It wouldn't hurt to imagine it, though. With any luck, that son of a bitch Maxson was there and then he and his little club could all go down in flames.

“Bad idea. You take one down, then the rest come for ya. And they've got bigger guns than anyone else.”

She sighed. “Fine.”

* * *

Daisy was thrilled when he handed her the cure. There was a caravan leaving the next day and watching it take the cure with them was like they were taking all the weight of his problems with them in that cart. Duncan would be running around like his old self in no time and MacCready couldn't wait.

“You're not going with them?” Julia asked. She hoisted her overstuffed knapsack over her back.

He shook his head no. “I got a few loose ends to tie up here first. I can't have the Gunners following me back home.” Then this was it for them, wasn't it? “What about you? You going back to... Sanctuary, was it?”

“Yeah. I, uh... I need some help getting my son back. Can't do it alone. So, I figure if I trade enough favors and caps, I can get the group to help me.”

“Well, since you were nice enough to get me that cure, I figure I can give you a discount on this favor just this once.” He grinned and curled his arm around her, which she briskly shook off. “All's you gotta do is ask me nicely.”

“No,” she said, almost too sharply, and it felt like she'd punched him in the gut. “I think you and I should part ways.”

What? Didn't she say she needed help? “Why? I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a pretty great shot.”

“That you are.” She gave him the weakest attempt at a smile and walked off. “See ya 'round, MacCready. Good luck.”

“So, what? You're leaving me behind?” Before he realized, he was outside the gates of Goodneighbor.

“I thought I made that clear.”

“But, why?”

He nearly crashed into her back when she came to a halt. “What does it matter? You got your caps. You got your cure. Go take care of your business and go home already.” And then in a smaller voice, “While you still have one.”

What wasn't she telling him? There was something off here. Her entire mood had changed since leaving Med-Tek. Was this about the Brotherhood? _No, _she was petty, but not that petty. Or maybe... “Is this because I know too much?”

Julia sighed and shook her head. “RJ, why are you following me?”

“Why won't you answer my question?”

“No!” She rubbed at her temple. “No, okay? It's not like I haven't been telling you everything from the beginning.”

“So, then why are you ditching me?” And why wouldn't she look at him? Goddammit, he _needed _her to look at him.

“I'm not... Look, it's best if I don't get involved with anyone else. I...”

“What? You got a crush on me or something?”

The scowl she gave him could have melted the paint off the Prydwen. Alright, point taken: bad joke. “Oh,_ fuck you.”_ She stormed off, though he'd never forget the momentary flush of red on her cheeks. Great, he now officially knew too much.

“I've done worse.” Oh, no. His mouth wouldn't stop. He had to reel it in. Reel it all the way in and shut the fuck up before she kicked his teeth in. He bit down on his tongue and took a breath. “Look, I'm sorry. You said 'involved' and I thought—”

“—Forget it. We're done here. Just go home.”

“No. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on!” He realized his mistake in grabbing her wrist the moment when his back slammed against the ground and he saw nothing but the clouds floating across the skies above. He had to hand it to Cait; she was a hell of a trainer. Ice began seeping in through his clothes, soothing the dull ache over his back.

There was that sweet, spicy scent again and he saw her kneel beside him. “Everything I did back then... When I woke up, I thought nothing had changed. All my hard work and sacrifice was for nothing.” The expression on her face was hard to decrypt; her eyes were watery, but she wore a smile of irony. “Turns out, I went and made things worse.”

This was an odd conversation to have on his back, but from the black dots dancing across his vision, he probably had a concussion.

“Three people knew about that strain. One of them got shot to death, and I watched the other one get the chair.”

His fingers. He couldn't move his fingers. Was his arm broken? Shit.

“No one knew where I buried it...” She hid her face between her knees. “Med-Tek must have been following me. I'm sorry.”

He tried to take a deep breath and it felt like he was wearing a belt made of knives around his waist. Her hand was pleasantly hot against his face and her lips were against his forehead.

"But it'll work. I promise Duncan will get better. I'm sorry he ever got sick, but he'll recover. I swear on my life."

On her life. She was swearing on her treacherous, conniving double life.

It was the last thing he heard before his world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julia's S.P.E.C.I.A.L. Luck value is -3.
> 
> Julia is so unlucky that when the Mysterious Stranger shows up, he shoots her.


	6. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Sanctuary, he finds conflicting feelings, diametrically opposed and yet existing within the same plane of his mind. MacCready can't quite make sense of it all and it's driving him insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of domestic abuse.

_Buried it..._

_The big one'll cost you... Um... three!_

_I watched the other one get the chair._

_No, not like that. Like a _real _one._

_Oh, you mean with tongue?_

_Your lips are so rough._

MacCready's face was burning: half was too hot and the other freezing cold. His ribs protested when he tried to turn. Flames danced in the middle of the night, draining away what little moisture there was in the air around him. His tongue felt like wet sand, sticking to the drier areas in his mouth: tell-tale signs of Stimpaks and Med-X. The screech of metal against stone alerted him to company. A woman sharpening a blade. Had it not been Julia, he would have been mildly anxious to know what the machete was for.

The disgruntled bray of a brahmin had him bolting upright. Another fire, nearby. Four others sat around it, all casting him brief looks ranging from angry to judgmental to passively curious.

“I didn't mean to slam you down that hard,” Julia said. “Sorry. You passed out and I panicked. Told them you were my drunk brother and we needed to get you home.”

Yeah. Sorry. He was hearing that a lot from her these days.

“What did you do to me?” he groaned.

“You mean before or after I flipped you to the ground?”

He sneered at her.

“You hit your head pretty bad. Your shoulder got dislocated. And you broke some of your floating ribs. I gave you a stimpak and Med-X for the pain.”

“Oh, _I _broke them?”

“You grabbed my arm. What was I supposed to do?”

“I dunno. _Not_ break my upper body?” There was nothing but trees, hills, and grass out here. They were certainly not in Goodneighbor anymore.

“You can get off in the next settlement and catch a caravan back... wherever. This one's heading Northwest.”

“Where are we, exactly?”

She squinted over her Pip-boy. “Just outside Rocky Narrows Park. I'm on Yao Guai duty.”

Well, if she'd managed to flip him over so easily, maybe she was right the person for the job. MacCready rolled his neck, noting the stiffness between his shoulder blades, the sharp biting pain at his right side, and the sticky feeling of bandaging against his flesh. “You stripped me down.”

Julia looked up from her Pip-boy like a radstag caught in the headlights. “I... I checked your sides for injuries! That's all, I swear.” Her expression would have made him explode into laughter, had his sides not ached so much. “I took Buffout before I was leaving; I didn't know I was going to split your head on the pavement.”

“God... Would you relax, already?” He sighed. But, he couldn't resist adding, “Besides, you've already seen me naked.”

“_RJ!”_

He winced as his torso shook with his laughter. For someone who'd made lying her business, Julia's facial expressions revealed far too much. She was like Lucy in that way: wore her heart on her sleeve, and her mind on her eyebrows, on the corners of her lips, on the way she said his name.

“You've gotta stop telling people we're related, though.”

“I panicked.”

“Yeah, and now everyone in Diamond City thinks we're together. We don't need them saying we're straight out of _Flowers in the Attic.”_

Julia snorted and shook her head. “Like anyone would believe you were my brother.” She pursed her lips in the direction of the caravaneers. “They really only let you ride on the wagon because I paid them enough to not ask questions.”

Hell, they probably saw her slamming him into the ground and knew better than to ask why she'd done so. Smart group. He snatched the canteen out of her hand and, as she looked on with horror stretching out her features, took a sip from the mouthpiece. “So, before I passed out,” he began and took another sip just to make her squirm. The water was saliva-warm but felt good down his parched, aching throat. “I remember you saying something about burying?”

The disgust in her face gave way to tension. The machete and whetstone were back in her hands, scraping, scraping, scraping and the sound was grating on his eardrums.

“And Med-Tek, following you.”

Scraping and scraping and sparks. There she went again. Running. Made him fear the worst again. “We're splitting up come daylight. I'll tell you before you leave.”

“No. You're done jerking me around. You're telling me right now.”

“RJ, I just don't think that now is the right—”

“—Right. Fucking. Now.”

He held her shocked gaze as if he'd cornered her. There was no telling what she'd do. Run again, probably. He'd hunt her down.

She sucked in a breath like a fish gasping for water. “The Blue Plague,” she began quietly; he assumed it was so that the people on the other side didn't hear. “It's a mutated form of a strain of anthrax... that I developed.” Her eyelids were blinking rapidly, whites starting to bloom pinkish, while rage began to boil behind his eyes.

So he'd heard her correctly. Julia was the reason behind Duncan's illness, the reason Duncan couldn't sleep without screaming his way through the pain. He gripped the fabric of his sleeping bag. Pretended it was her neck.

“The crowd-control grenade, it... It was supposed to go off in the air vents in the Museum of Freedom. It, uh...” She sniffled and his teeth began to grind together. “Was supposed to hit the President, his cabinet members... some big shots in the military. It wasn't contagious, so no civilians would get hurt...”

“Except my _son.”_

“Mac—”

“—He's spent _years _wasting away in bed because of you,” he seethed.

“They stole it!” she yelled and the caravaneers were looking up at them again. She lowered her voice. “The toxin I developed caused sores, not boils.”

Unbelievable. His fingers yanked at his hair. He'd been traveling with her for months and she'd been the root of all his problems. “I should kill you. Give me one reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your fucking head right now.”

She was hiding her head in her folded arms, over her knees. “...I don't have one.”

He got up, knees shaking, and walked. And walked and walked and walked. He was going to kill her. That bitch had sidled up to him, made him think she gave two shits about him when she'd nearly killed his only child, the only thing he had left of Lucy's. Had she done the same to Nick? Was that why the old synth couldn't stand the sight of her anymore? The day she'd waltzed out of that vault, she'd been fucking people's lives up left and right and expected to solve it with tears and apologies.

“RJ, please...”

Safety off, rifle in hand, he aimed it at her. “You think I'm fucking joking?”

She didn't even put her hands up when she pressed her forehead to the muzzle of his gun. “I swear... You can be the first to put a bullet through my eyes. Once I find my son.” A clear trail was running down her nose and cupid's bow. “Please let me find him first. And then you can do whatever you want with me.”

The ways to make her pay were endless and loud and made his head spin. He let out a frustrated growl, not quite finding the burning hatred within to just pull the trigger and spray her brains all over the dust. He lowered his rifle.

“Don't think for a second I won't come to collect that debt.”

* * *

MacCready loomed behind her, watching her every step, her personal Grim Reaper ready to harvest her dues. The Gunners had taught him a thing or two about human suffering. Tie her up to a chair and remove fingers and toes and have her bleed to death? Or maybe infect her kid with—no, he didn't have it in him to do that to some innocent child. No, this needed to be just her. Begging for his mercy.

The faint glow of torches seeped through a patch of bare, frost-kissed trees. Two figures moved across the torches. If they'd been trying to be stealthy, they'd failed. Amateurs. A pair of women, clad in long dusters and those ridiculous hats Hancock seemed to like so much. Trihorn? No. Triceratops? No, those were dinosaurs. What were they called again?

“I need to speak to Preston Garvey,” Julia said. “Tell him it's Julia. He'll know who it is.”

The way she said her name was different. He'd been pronouncing it with a hard J the entire time he'd known her and she hadn't bothered to correct him. One of the guards left to inform Garvey, while Julia eyed the other with something close to disapproval. Why the face? Sure, the outfits were stupid, but that was no reason to look at them that way. Unless it was something else. No, from the way she was looking over the settlement, it had to have been something else.

The sound of boots crunching on the ground. The guard had returned with two tall men, both large in frame, and then went back to her station.

“Ms. Vidal!” the one in the hat said. He was going to assume that was Preston.

“Mr. Garvey. I see you've spruced this place up quite a bit.”

“We couldn't have done it without you, ma'am.” From the way he seemed to suck up to her, she'd charmed her way into his heart too. She'd spent most of her time fucking shit up in Goodneighbor and Diamond City, so helping out this shanty town seemed a little farfetched. If this Preston guy was planning to kiss up his way into her pants, he was shit out of luck; MacCready hadn't gotten anywhere close, and she was technically his wife. “We've been getting in new recruits thanks to you.”

“And the plans you had for the water distillery?” the taller man chimed in. “Genius! Me and Codsy fixed that right up in like, three hours.”

Her face lit up. “Codsworth? Is he still here, Sturges?”

“Yes, ma'am. He's in the kitchen. You know him.”

She laughed. “Probably cleaning up a storm and driving you crazy.”

The two men glanced over at him like he'd just materialized. Not very observant, were they? Preston spoke first. “Oh, and this is...”

When her eyes met his, he felt her stiffen up and saw the smile melt off her lips. “This is... MacCready. He's, um...”

A man lying in wait to shoot her the first chance he got. But that wouldn't sit well with Julia's little fanboys, now, would it? He snaked an arm around her waist and brought her close, nice and snug against his side. “Aw, since when are you so shy, baby?” He smirked at her, running a hand on her cheek that made her shiver so pleasantly in his arms. She was scared. Good. “I'm her husband,” he stated. “Robert Joseph MacCready. Friends call me RJ. Or MacCready. Take your pick.”

Preston and Sturges exchanged a glance so uncomfortable, it nearly made him shuffle his weight around. But he stood his ground. As long as it wasn't a complete lie, he could manage... But only if Julia played along. He flexed his grip on her waist and her eyes briefly widened with panic. He felt her hand slide up over his chest and the weight of her head on his shoulder.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Sturges finally said, and MacCready felt his stomach unclench. “Congratulations, ma'am.”

Preston kept shifting his gaze between them, seemingly unconvinced. Until Sturges elbowed him in the side. “...Right. I'm, uh...happy for you.” He cleared his throat. “You deserve some happiness after all you've been through.”

He grazed the tip of his nose against hers and relished the way her breath hitched. “She's certainly the light of my life. Ain't that right?”

Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. “RJ has...certainly been a comfort,” she eked out, “in these difficult times.” She tilted her head at Preston and Sturges. “Thank you...for not judging me.”

“Ain't any of our business, ma'am,” Sturges insisted, popping his powerful hand over Preston's broad shoulder; the shorter man didn't seem to agree from the scowl on his face, but he appeared to defer to his colleague. “Why don't we get inside? Got a lot of improvements since we last seen ya.”

Preston only nodded and turned to guide them farther into the settlement. Most of the houses were broken down, reduced to a few boards on top of cracked, concrete slabs. The ones with working lights on the inside were boarded up and crowded. He spotted six of those goofy hats in one house, not counting the other beds. Ahead, Preston was chatting up Julia about the settlers, the security rotations, the food rations, something about having a local doctor. All somehow thanks to her.

“Speaking of which, ma'am,” Preston said, “There was something I was meaning to ask you regarding Sanctuary.” His dark eyes flashed between him and Julia, and MacCready took it he was implying he'd meant _alone_.

Julia glanced back at him, almost as if asking permission, and part of him felt sick for it. The other half of him was drinking it up. “I'll be back,” she said quietly.

Was she used to asking her husband for permission? Was that the kind of relationship she'd had with what's-his-name? It seemed out of character for her. Julia was impulsive and free; seeing her so restrained like this felt wrong, like the prewar books about circuses with wild animals in heavy chains. And yet, knowing he was those chains weighing her down made him feel drunk with power. There were times the darker side of him ached to play that way, and Lucy (bless her kind, giving nature) would allow it. Hands chained over her head, blindfolded, nothing but his silence, her begging, his touch. The times when it got so intense, that she shivered in his arms long after the deed was over, and she begged for him not to let go of her, when his kisses over her bare flesh weren't enough to sate her. And the guilt that would wash over him afterward like a wave of radiation sickness, poisoning the ecstasy in his veins.

Against his better judgment, he grabbed her wrist, pulled her close and brought her face close to his. He wasn't sure who began the kiss, but it made his head spin and it was bitter and heavy like a damn good stout, and she was breathless when he pulled back. “Remember, sweetheart: you promised,” he murmured against her lips.

Julia nodded briskly and he made note of her running her tongue over her lips, of the extra color over her cheeks, the way she stumbled as she caught up with Preston ahead of her. Wasn't she supposed to be some kind of a master at this game? _Check-fucking-mate. _

Sturges led him into one of the houses, one with a few power armor frames in the carport. The inside held eight beds and supplies neatly stacked against the walls. He drawled on about farmland and food supplies, and something about starting up a school soon. So there were children here. Interesting. He'd have to see this place once the sun rose. Maybe if things didn't get too bad, Duncan could grow up here with other kids. It seemed decent enough.

The other rooms held more supplies: mostly ammo and scrapped metal. One room, however, was marked as “Off-Limits” and he felt a thrill surge through him. He always liked a good challenge.

“You'll probably want to get Ms. Vi... Your wife's things.” Sturges unlocked the door for him, much to his surprise. So much for the thrill of lockpicking. “They're in there, whenever you're ready.”

Her things? Had this been her house? It was _huge, _now that he came to think about it. They could have fit all of the kids at Little Lamplight in here and had room to grow. What did prewar folks ever do with so much space, other than lounge around on their asses thinking of new ways of fucking the future generations over?

The sight of the room hit him in the gut by the surprise. The cradle. He hadn't been ready for the empty crib. Lucy had always been so good with her hands, and he'd been so impressed when she'd showed him the cradle she'd whittled out for Duncan. This one lacked the telltale imperfections of being handmade, but the impression it made was the same. There was something disturbing about an empty cradle. They were supposed to be messy and noisy, containing the rambunctious life two people had created together. There was nothing but silence and overwhelming emptiness and grief. He picked up a lopsided, dirty child's toy: it looked like a rabbit if those old children's books had taught him anything. It was missing one of its floppy ears and one of the button eyes was dangling from a string. This was definitely handmade. Had Julia made this for Shaun? It was ugly and nowhere near as useful as a crib, but he could tell every stitch was made with a mother's love in mind. And it made him want to weep.

He placed the toy back in its corner and went through the boxes on the dresser, instead. Old, yellowed papers, neatly folded men's clothes, medals, and a few items of men's jewelry: three watches, three rings, and a thin chain necklace. Another box held women's clothes, including some interesting lingerie choices. Just where exactly was that little string supposed to go? The stockings, however... Yeah, he could see her wearing those. But he'd save that image for later when he had some time alone.

The last box held several holos: many in black and white, some in full color. Most of them were of Nate and his military career. He'd been a massive man, even taller than Sturges, with broad shoulders and a piercing gaze. For a second, the picture alone was enough to make him regret having kissed his wife like that. Some of the pictures were of their wedding day, but he knew Julia enough to know that the smile she had on was fake. Her eyes weren't crinkling enough and her jaw was visibly tight. Her fingers were clenched over the crisp white fabric of her dress. Maybe fake marriages were her specialty.

Three of the pictures were, he guessed, of the bride and groom's family. Nate's family was the biggest family he'd ever seen: parents, grandparents, siblings, cousins (he guessed). A current of envy jabbed at his stomach. While the kids back in the cave were family, once they aged up, they disappeared. He'd foolishly thought he'd find them all waiting for him at Big Town, that they'd be a family together again, only to see Big Town had been a ghost town in ruins for years. Signs of the kids who'd taken him in as a baby: Red, Kimba, Pappy... scraps of their clothes and items were all that was left of them.

Julia's picture only had one other person in it: a pale, lanky man with silver hair, blue eyes, and a crooked nose. He had his hand on her shoulder in a paternal way, though there was no resemblance at all. Her smile was tighter here like she'd been on the verge of tears. He wasn't sure who the man was, but other holos showed him giving her away during the ceremony.

In one holo, he appeared again with Julia clad in some black cap and gown (and glasses!), that hand still on her shoulder. She looked younger then, her features rounder, eyes larger in comparison but crinkled and glittering in a genuine smile.

There was one holo of a little boy and a little girl, barefoot, with dirty faces in front of an old concrete and tin shack. The last one was of Julia holding a wrinkly, bundled up baby in her arms. She looked tired, but there was no denying the tender love in her expression, even through the dark frames of her glasses. He recalled Lucy having that same look on her face just after bringing Duncan into the world, tendrils of ash brown hair glued to her forehead with sweat.

Before he closed up the boxes, he noticed a clip-on badge with the faded letters reading, “Med-Tek” and he had that sinking feeling again. There was also an old bound notebook with strange writing on it. Mostly combinations of letters and numbers. He pocketed that.

He decided to keep everything else here for now. If Julia wanted any of this stuff, she could get it herself.

A bugle played “Reveille” over a loudspeaker and it was then he noticed the sun had risen. When he exited the Cortéz house, settlers were lining up outside another house, trays in hand.

“Y'all are welcome to stay for breakfast,” Sturges said, walking past him and into the house he assumed was now a mess hall. He counted at least 20 different people, including the kitchen staff. Six children spread throughout the room, eating with their families, whether biological, adoptive or found. He spotted Cait's auburn hair; she waved with a piece of bread in her mouth. A Mr. Handy was bobbing on its thrusters, making sure the tables were well-stocked.

“To be honest, I don't know the first thing about farming,” he heard Julia say. She was with Preston, heading toward the mess. “But I'll do what I can.” She straightened up when she saw him, but said nothing else.

“My late wife and I used to own a homestead. I'd be happy to lend my expertise,” he offered.

Again, Preston seemed to be probing the air between them. But he wasn't getting any information out of him. “I... might have to take you up on that, sir,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

When he excused himself, MacCready took his place at Julia's side. Even now that he'd seen so much of her past life, nothing was adding up. From the holos alone, it seemed her marriage hadn't been completely happy, despite the fact it was all she talked about. She'd never mentioned what'd happened to her parents, though it was always possible they stayed back wherever she'd come from. Then again, from the big deal they'd made about her and Nate's wedding, he wanted to think her family would have wanted to be there for her.

“They, uh... want me to be the General of the Minutemen.”

Her expression gave away little, other than the sun being in her eyes. The most destructive force on the face of the Commonwealth, now the leader of the Minutemen. He supposed a well-aimed nuke was better than one meandering about. It would definitely give her an edge over anyone who would dare interfere with rescuing Shaun. Though probably not the Institute, unfortunately. But, hell, it was something. Maybe not what she needed, but definitely something.

“Hey, you already have me as a follower. Look how well you're doing.”

She didn't seem to think it was as amusing as he did, though.

“Look, if you ask me, I think you'd be making the right choice. We'd have allies watching our back.”

Julia stared at him like she was trying to figure him out despite his reasoning being quite simple. The quicker she found Shaun, the quicker he'd get to exact his pound of flesh. There was nothing altruistic about it, though perhaps she knew that about him already.

“Preston set my quarters two houses down, in the alcove. There's a couch and a bed there. Pick the one you want. I won't be sleeping much anyway.”

“What about your old house?”

From the twitch in her lips, he surmised she hadn't wanted him to look in there. She shook her head. “I... I can't go in there. But, if you don't care about the charade, feel free to stay where you want. I'll be around.”

Her scent wafted behind her as she bolted past him, prompting the time they'd spent huddled up in the comic book store to pop up in his mind again. The texture of her hair against his fingers, the softness of her skin, the way she'd look down and give this coy, dimpled smile whenever she was recalling a fond memory.

He felt his pulse quicken at the realization he'd been staring at her.

Sleep. He needed sleep. Exhaustion had to be the cause of his sluggishness. Nothing else.


	7. Waiting for the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are different ways to grieve, MacCready comes to find out. And when Julia leaves for the Glowing Sea, he gets to know the inhabitants of Sanctuary a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mac can be an ass sometimes.

Ultimately, sleeping arrangements didn't matter when you weren't sleeping. MacCready volunteered for the night shifts at one of the guard towers, while Julia was away doing her daily good deeds for the Minutemen. And, in the eyes of others, they would probably be spending their mornings curled up in each other's arms, the picture of marital bliss. The memory of hammering away at his couch in tempo brought a twist to his lips; the outrage she'd had on her face as he'd made the most exaggerated noises: primal grunts, impassioned sighs, and utterances of swear words and her name. Over and over again.

He chuckled to himself, billowing cigarette smoke zigzagging in the air with each stuttering breath from his nostrils.

Other than the complete lack of entertainment, Sanctuary wasn't half bad. A man like him could get used to eating regularly. Sure, the insipid razorgrain mush left a lot to be desired, but he'd take it any day over Clair's tato surprise. Security detail was a cinch. Just point and shoot whatever didn't look friendly and came too close. And while he wasn't a fan of being put on dish duty, having some input on the menu had been more fun than he remembered; Lucy'd been a woman of many talents, but the culinary arts had not been among them, so cooking had most often than not fallen on him. Whenever he'd been around, that was. So much of his time had been spent in the shadows, masquerading as a soldier when he'd been nothing but a dirty mercenary. And here he was, on the Minutemen's General's payroll, bowing to none other than the one responsible for Duncan's illness. _Old habits die hard, huh?_

A faint yellow-green glow in the distance alerted him to Julia's arrival, Preston in tow, staggering and dragging a wheelbarrow in the rain-soaked mud. He made no effort to move, content to watch her struggle. Until she plopped onto the ground on her ass. Ha. Served her right. He watched her lackey fuss about to try to get her up, but she was dead weight in his arms. Her shoulders were shaking. Was she crying again? Mac sighed. Always crying about something. Who knew such a cold-blooded killer could be so sensitive?

On her feet, they drew the wheelbarrow to an empty clearing within a short gate. A long, wrapped bundle lay prone in the cart and the glare of firelight suggested the outlines of shovel blades. He wasn't about to tell them their farming efforts were best put to use during the daytime, as that would ruin the fun of letting them do all the work, digging and digging away in the pouring rain.

It was only when they lifted the heavy bundle that he realized what it was: a body.

If they'd been trying to look suspicious, they hit that nail right on the head.

Whose body were they burying? And, other than Raiders, who buried anyone anymore? If MacCready was lucky, Duncan would give his festering corpse the last decency of a pyre, but most Commonwealth and Wasteland folks met their end on the side of a dusty road and became instant lunch for animals and ferals. Either way, people were lucky to have anything to remember their loved ones by. Not everyone got the privilege of closure. Lucy's body was long gone by now, rotting away in pieces in the stomachs of various feral ghouls. Fuck, he'd never even gotten the chance to say goodbye. He'd just... left her there. Even when she'd screamed for him for help, he'd left her to die. Didn't come back for her body, didn't even check to see if she was completely dead. That was stupid; of course, she was dead. She hadn't slowly bled out, nor had she starved to death.

No, Lucy had been... She'd...

_Help me!_

MacCready rubbed at his burning eyes, willing the phantom screams away with a few timed, deep breaths.

Julia was on her knees now, Preston's steadying hand on her shoulder. For someone who thought she was a married woman, Preston seemed a little too touchy-feely and friendly to him. Almost as if he was waiting to swoop her away like some knight in rugged armor. Except Julia was no damsel in distress. Hell, she _was_ the distress; she had to be the incarnation of the goddess Eris, or whatever-her-name-was from the _Iliad._

When Preston left, she slumped down next to the grave, dug into the breast-pocket of her dark blue coat and pulled out what looked like a flask. She was muttering something to herself and, while MacCready prided himself in reading lips, hers were tracing out words he couldn't make out through his binoculars, other than the occasional curse in English.

"Got somethin' good?" Cait said behind him and he nearly fell over the railing of the guard tower.

Once he managed to swallow his heart back into its rightful place, he shot her a weary look, cigarette fizzling away cold in the wet ground below.

"I think married life's gotten you wound up tight. She not givin' ya any?"

"Now's not a good time, Cait."

She crossed her arms, watching Julia. "Damn right. Shift's over, loverboy. Best take your bride to bed now."

He'd been watching her for so long he hadn't noticed the sky had gone from coal black to a hazy, silvery blue. Goddamn, when had he gotten so careless? Chaos! She was chaos personified, fucking him up in every way except how he wanted and—oh, he had _not _just thought that.

"Must've been what Garvey had been all mum about," she commented, and he froze midway down the ladder.

"What's that?"

Cait nodded toward the scene. "That right there's your predecessor. She and Preston went to go fetch her fella's body from the Vault."

Her husband? She'd been hauling Nate's body for miles in the middle of the night?

"You're thick as a plank sometimes, Mac. I worry 'bout ya." She groaned and ran a hand through her hair. "Aw, fer—Go get her, will ya?"

Julia had passed out facedown on the mud. MacCready flung himself from the middle rung of the ladder to pull her back up to a sitting position. Her breath reeked of alcohol so badly, he was surprised she hadn't caught fire from one of the nearby torches. To his relief, Cait took the other half of her weight as they hauled her to her feet and away from the grave.

Deciding against attempting to drag her into the attic of their personal quarters, they dropped her onto the couch and Cait excused herself back to her station, leaving him with this bundle of mud, booze and _pathetic. _Like giant mud pie of sadness. Just sitting there.

He'd been in this position before, shortly after Lucy died: completely sloshed, hiccuping in-between dry sobs and heaves, muttering words that had made sense at the moment to him and no one else. Many times he'd been so trashed, he'd gone soft in the middle of fucking whoever agreed to be underneath him. A few random hookups in Rivet City, Nova in Megaton (plenty of times and he vaguely recalled, much to his chagrin, trying to pay her one night just so she'd hold him in her arms), a few nameless faces on his way up the Commonwealth. He'd taken his pleasures wherever he could find them, whether that was at the bottom of a whiskey bottle or Jet cartridge, deep inside another warm, willing, eager body, or the thrill of watching the life seep out of an enemy's eyes. And still, he'd ended many nights just like this. Empty. Drunk. Lonely. Cold.

Julia mumbled something.

"What?"

She said it again, louder, but his ears made no sense of it.

"Yeah, I heard you. Still not getting it."

"_¡Z__afacón!"_

When she lurched forward and pointed at the trash can, he pulled it in front of her just in time to hear the contents of her stomach slap against the bottom of the bag. He wasn't sure if that was what she'd meant by 'DEFCON' or whatever-the-hell-she-said, but it seemed to quiet her. He took that opportunity to peel the wet duster off her body. Couldn't be her warden if she decided to keel over on him from a cold, of all things. Muddy water had seeped through her layers, and she was starting to feel clammy. That wouldn't do.

If only in the name of revenge, MacCready took it upon himself to divest her of her clothes, wiping the dirt off her face and wrapping her in a few old blankets before setting her facedown on the sofa. His sofa. He had to make an effort not to stare at the hypertrophic redness spreading up one of her ribs, into her armpit and near the nape of her neck, and down past the long, dusky scar below her navel and clawing over half her thigh. It hadn't been this bad that night in the showers, though he hadn't quite seen the extent of it until now. She flinched when the fabric brushed past it. Shouldn't touch it more than he had to. She'd claimed it wasn't contagious and, at this point, he was past caring, but he wasn't sure if she treated the rash a certain way, whether stimpaks were bad for it, or if there was something he could do about the pain. In the end, he let her be enveloped in four blankets and called it a night.

Julia didn't bring it up the next afternoon when they woke up, so he didn't either, though he did notice she was avoiding eye contact to the point of clumsiness. She'd dropped her spoonful of soup midway to her mouth when he'd caught her staring at him and, in response, he'd spit his all over a poor Minuteman across the table who hadn't found the situation nearly as amusing as MacCready. Later that day, she'd pretended to be looking for something in her bag while walking (bad idea. This woman was full of bad ideas.) and caught her foot on a crack in the pavement, only to stumble into a wide-stance, which she'd tried to play off as intentionally silly when one of the kids giggled at her.

During his patrol shift, he caught her walking toward the gate with the bag she used during longer trips slung over her shoulder. It wasn't until Preston gestured up at him with a nod that she made brief—not even a full second—eye contact. She drew the side of her bottom lip into her lip like she was considering something before she met his gaze again; when he flashed her a grin, he saw her throat to swallow and her face pinch close in a scowl.

He leaned over the tower's railing. "Going somewhere?"

Preston tipped his hat at him, but Julia was the one who spoke. "We're going to go find Dr. Virgil."

The word _'We' _felt exclusive. It excluded him, despite the fact that he'd been the one to watch her back all this time, despite the fact that she'd preemptively stabbed him in the back before he could have drawn his first breath. Despite the fact that he'd stayed with her after, promising to wait until she found her son, and he'd been nothing but motherfucking loyal and useful and now she was—No. MacCready chastised his train of thought into submission. He fiddled with the pack of cigarettes in his jacket until wrestled one out, lit it and placed it between his lips, the bitterness on his tongue comforting and familiar. This had nothing to do with him and he was being ridiculous.

She must have noticed his discomfort because she climbed up the ladder to meet him, folding her hands over the railing.

"I'll be back."

He exhaled smoke through his nostrils. Made him feel like the dragon from _Grognak: Blood on the Harp_. "Must be a helluva shot for you to take him instead." He _hated_ how jealous he sounded. Why would he be jealous of Preston? If he wanted her, all he had to do was ask her. It wasn't like she was his or anything—though, in Preston's mind, she technically should have been.

"I was told there are a lot of feral ghouls there and—" She stopped when he met her gaze like it had ripped the voice from her throat. Was that pity he was sensing? Her knuckles went pale under strained flesh, fingers gripping the metal bar of the railing. "I think Sanctuary would be a lot better off with you guarding it while we're gone."

"Not very smart to care about someone who wants you dead, sweetheart."

Her dark brow arched and her lips curled. "I pay my debts, MacCready. _With interest."_ Why the hell that sounded so sexual to him, he wasn't sure, but his heart rate leaped at the near-predatory smirk she wore, the inside of his mouth suddenly dry.

Thankfully, he'd given his mouth and fingers something to keep himself occupied enough that he wasn't scrambling around for words to seem cool; in his mind, the cigarette was enough to give that air of aloofness.

"Like I said, I'll be back. I know you have a few bullets with my name on them." She nudged at his side.

"One."

"Huh?"

"One. I don't miss."

A flash of white behind her plush red lips and she laughed like he'd just tossed her some cheesy pick-up line at a bar. "Fair enough. Now, come on. He's watching."

Preston was toying with his musket, but from the twitch of his nostrils, MacCready knew he was trying not to listen in on their time together. Showtime.

"What, couldn't get enough of me last time?" His fingers found the small of her back and brought her close, and he definitely did not notice how well they fit against the curve like they belonged there all along and had finally found their home.

She shoved his shoulder, but the corners of her mouth were struggling from raising into a smile. "Stop it."

"So you don't want me to kiss you again?" The way she gasped when the tip of his nose brushed against hers made his heart skip a beat and gallop under his sternum in a way that was wrong, so wrong, but dammit, he couldn't stop his smart mouth from running. "He's watching."

For a moment, there was only her in his arms. Her dark eyes, dropping to his mouth before gazing up at him with parted lips, an expression that made him want to think this was for real. Genuine. Honest. The way her breath fanned against his cheek when she closed the gap between them and pressed once, twice, and again, making his knees feel like rubber when she gently sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, running the silken tip of her tongue over the surface. And then she let him go.

She let him go and he was empty.

She let him go and he was cold.

She let him go and he was lonely.

She let him go and he felt drunk.

When had he become so infatuated with her? She was a slow-drip of poison and now it was too late to save himself. She had him in the palm of her hand, even as she disappeared into the horizon and took his heart with her. MacCready was floored. When had this happened and why had no one bothered to tell him? Julia should have come with a warning label. He needed her like a shot of Med-X in his vein. Without her, he was...

God, what if she got ambushed by Super Mutants? Or attacked by assaultrons? Or swarmed with ferals and he wasn't there to help her and she was Lucy—

Was that it? Was he using her as a replacement for Lucy? His attempts to do that with others had ended in slaps to the face, being thrown out of rooms with his underwear in hand, being chased by angry spouses with arsenals at their disposals. So why was she letting him do this? Did she think he'd fallen for her? Or did she just feel sorry for him? Did she think she owed him her body after what she'd done? A murky, grimy feeling washed over him like the scent of the Potomac low tide and clung to the surface of his skin like a film.

He was the worst.

He really was the worst.

* * *

Of all Sanctuary's inhabitants, MacCready took a liking to Sturges almost immediately: the man was easygoing, had good taste in liquor, and knew better than to ask invasive questions. While MacCready never understood the mechanical mumbo jumbo that spouted out of his mouth, his enthusiasm for it was as amusing as it was contagious. Who knew retrofitting pipes could be so interesting?

Then there was Mama Murphy. Jury was still out on her. She claimed to be an unarmed combat specialist in her youth, but imagining her ripping off the head of a raider with her bare hands was difficult when all she did was get high in her cozy little chair. Something about elderly humans was so jarring. Few people made it to her age, and he'd grown up without seeing more than a handful of adults until the age of sixteen. But not even Doc Church, Nathan nor Manya from Megaton had been this old. Her skin was like wet tissue paper, and he could clearly make out some of her veins through her sagging flesh. Her eyes were glazed over, almost ghoul-like. And yet she'd probably freak him out less if she were a ghoul. Ghouls, he'd gotten used to.

Then again, he couldn't see himself growing that old; life was too unpredictable and he took far too many risks in his line of work. It would be by sheer luck alone if anyone made it past 35. He'd consider himself fortunate if he even made it to 30. Maybe that's why Mama Murphy freaked him out so much. Reminded him of his looming, inevitable mortality.

Prewar humans had often made it to her age and beyond, and they'd considered it a sign of a full, happy life. Would Lucy have looked like that if she'd made it? If she had never had the misfortune of meeting him? Would she have grown old and happy and blissfully hazy-eyed, sitting in a rocking chair of her farmhouse porch?

"What you resist, persists, kid," she drawled, halting him on the way back to the kitchen with the carrots he'd finished scrubbing for the vegetable stew tonight.

She was like a wrinkly, blue-eyed Hancock, waxing philosophical whenever he overdid it on the Mentats, but without the charm. "Uh...yeah. Sure."

Other than when she lead the children to and from the designated schoolhouse, he never heard Marcy Long say anything other than a complaint. Sanctuary was a hole. Sanctuary was a dump. 'Why did you burn the brahmin steak again, MacCready? Supplies are expensive, MacCready. No one cares about your comic books, MacCready.' The kids around her, however, wouldn't stop beaming with gapped-toothed smiles, skipping about in a carefree innocence he no longer remembered.

On his smoke break, he saw her with the children in tow like a proud momma duck with her little ducklings, waddling and singing a nursery rhyme. She wasn't singing, but he swore her mouth had relaxed into a soft smile.

Jun Long was another he wasn't sure about. He was a relatively quiet man, although polite and considerate. While MacCready had failed at making him snort his brahmin milk out of his nose with his jokes, Jun tended to crack a lopsided grin as if he were just starting to learn how to laugh again.

Before his shift at the tower, he caught sight of a lanky dark-haired man near Nate's grave, a freshly-dug burial site next to his. Smaller. Too small, and he felt his heart sink into his stomach. The dead grass below his foot crunched and Jun turned just enough to get a glimpse of him approaching before rubbing his forearm over his face.

"You alright?" MacCready asked.

Jun's pale, bony fingers clutched the handle on the shovel a little tighter. He kept his dark eyes on the little grave, almost like he was expecting something to happen. "...We never got to bury Kyle. Everything happened so fast." He sniffed. "Preston and them... They went back to Quincy to see if they could find him. Any part of my son." Jun shook his head. "He was gone. All of him. I don't even want to think about what they... Oh, God."

Jun's grief hit MacCready like a tidal wave, but he wasn't ready for the surge of panic that ensued, the fear that it would trigger the tsunami of emotions he'd been attempting to tamper down for years. Still, he dug his heels into the ground, pulled out a cigarette and lit it instead. A man like that shouldn't be left on his own. He'd know. He'd been there far too many times.

"C—Can I?" Jun nodded his head toward the pack of cigarettes. He lit one when MacCready gave it to him and took a long drag. "Maybe don't tell Marcy, okay?"

He snorted. "Yeah, you don't have to worry about that, buddy. Scout's honor."

"I know she can be..." _Difficult? Off-putting? An all-around drag? _Jun didn't finish that sentence and exhaled instead. "She's working through the loss in her own way."

Weren't they all? Few people had _not_ lost anyone close to them in an incident of violence.

"She was... Kyle had been holding her hand. When it happened. I think she blames herself. He couldn't keep up, you know? His ankle...And when I ran back to help him back up..." Jun shook his head and bit his lip, face contorting in visceral sorrow, tears falling again. "The Gunners...They were aiming at me. But they missed. They missed."

Unfortunately, MacCready knew better. More than likely, the Gunners hadn't missed. How many times had the Gunners invaded towns only to burn them to the ground? How many times had they allowed a handful of survivors to escape just to spread the knowledge of their ruthlessness? How many times had he aided in those scorched earth raids, whether as security or as a foot soldier? How many times had he stood by while they took turns torturing prisoners, just to earn enough caps to feed his addictions? It could have been them. He could have been the one to murder their child. Or at least, an accomplice to it.

Jun's shoulders eventually stopped shaking and it was then he turned around to look at him. "The General took a trip back to Quincy. Preston said they were scouting the place out. She found Kyle's hat. That's all that was left of him." He looked down at the grave he'd dug. "So this is it. His final resting place. It'll have to do, right?"

He fiddled his hands uncomfortably within his pocket, fingers searching for that metal jack, only to brush against something round and wooden. The toy soldier. MacCready blinked back the hot stinging in his eyes and nodded. He cleared his throat. "No, uh...You did good, Jun."

"Right? We can put a few flowers on it. I think...I think he would have been happy. Kyle loved flowers."

The sad little smile Jun gave him knocked the wind out of him. Like there was this unseen weight the man had been freed of. What was that like?

"I'm gonna go. Marcy'll come looking for me if I'm not there before she heads to bed." The cigarette dropped to the ground and he snuffed it out with his boot. "Thanks for the smoke, MacCready."

"Sure, buddy." He watched him leave. "Anytime."


	8. Cringe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lover, come over, look what I've done_   
_I've been alone so long, I feel like I'm on the run_   
_Lover, come over, kick up the dust_   
_I've got a secret starting to rust_

One month. It had been one month and four days and there was no word on Preston and Julia and MacCready crushed his last empty carton in his hand. He was out and it made his fingers itchy and his head throb and a knot of anxiety to tighten and tighten in his gut. He needed the buzz, craved the fiery current that kickstarted his system whenever he started to crash and, honestly, when was he ever not on the verge of crashing into a spiraling maelstrom of hell? Sliding his hat off, he ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots. Shit. Someone had to have a pack around here.

The last time he'd seen sleep was five days ago. A few times, he'd passed out in the middle of his guard shift, only to startle awake whenever the wind made the dry branches rustle and crunch. He'd nicked the shit out of his thumb yesterday while trimming the fat off a chunk of brahmin meat with a paring knife. Unlike the knife, MacCready wasn't at his sharpest. And he hated it. That was his entire thing: he was a _sharpshooter, _not a blunt shooter—though he sure wouldn't mind one of those right now.

His head felt heavy on his neck and he rested it on the table, next to his can of purified water and the three boxes of Fancy Lads he'd inhaled within the past two hours.

“Hey!” Marcy barked from the kitchen. “Help out or get lost.”

MacCready groaned. He wasn't ready to get up yet. “I peeled all the carrots already. What do you want from me?”

He heard her mutter to herself in another language—Jun had said her family had spoken Cantonese, but MacCready had no idea what that was—before she tossed a cold, wet, foul-smelling rag at his face. He dashed away from the slimy sensation, nearly tripping over the table. “Clean up after yourself. You left carrot peels and dirt everywhere.”

“I did not!” When he entered the kitchen, surely enough, there were a few peels scattered over the table and a trail of dried starch and dirt smeared into the sink and knife. What? He could have sworn he'd cleaned those up. Though that could have been yesterday. Or the day before—the days were all running together. He grabbed a box of Abraxo cleaner and sprinkled it over the sink. “Sh... Crap, Marcy. Sorry. I'll get that cleaned up.”

But she'd moved on, whisking something in a bowl while peering over Jun's shoulder. He was carefully dicing carrots into what Marcy claimed was a 'fine brunoise.' “Those look good, Jun. Keep going.” MacCready wouldn't have known; he was used to chopping things small enough so that Duncan wouldn't choke on them, not because the cut affected cooking times or flavor or whatever. Moments later, she was scowling at him. “What are you staring at? You're done now. Get out of the way.”

“Alright, alright. I'm going. Jeez.” So much for the glimpse of tenderness there.

“I can't believe we're spending so much on that _woman's_ personal errands. We've got two days left of meat, we're running out of stimpaks, and now Preston decides to take off with that...” He didn't quite catch the rest of her sentence, and quite frankly, he was glad for it. While things weren't ideal, they could have been worse. He hadn't been able to eat this frequently in...ever. Besides, hadn't Julia helped them out enough? So what was a little assistance in return?

Dinner went as well as it usually went: scattered complaints about the broth being too salty or too bland or too spicy or too blah blah blah. Whatever. This noodle bowl rivaled Takahashi's, though it didn't quite have the same flavor. The actual noodles, however? Delightful. Had just enough elasticity and snap, but not rubbery. “Seriously, you could give Diamond City a run for its money with these,” he said with his mouth stuffed with noodles.

Marcy's trademark glare softened into a sullen, rosy-cheeked sulk and she continued eating her meal in silence.

By his night shift, he was working on his second bottle of _Uisce Beatha. _While the liquid warmth coating his stomach and veins soothed the jitters, it was doing nothing for his headache. The rational side of him knew better than to drink on the job, as it would mess with his perception, but he was screwed either way. He'd already chewed his blackened fingernails down to stubs and he needed something for his nerves. Anything. Mama Murphy'd claimed not to have any Jet, but he knew the old hag was holding out on him when she'd said something cryptic about 'seeing the beyond.'

A sharp sniffle brought him out of his withdrawal-induced haze. Raiders and Gunners wouldn't be so careless as to attack while sick, so he lowered his rifle. The graveyard. A lone woman stood there. Her hair was far too straight and her body too slight to be Julia's. Marcy.

_Marcy?_

Oh. Marcy was crying.

MacCready felt his cheeks heat up like he was witnessing something far too private and intimate. She probably wouldn't want him to see her that way, so he turned around and tried to focus on the cool, gentle pressure of the steel knucklebone in his palm. _Dammit, why am I always posted at _this _tower? _Not that it mattered. She spoke mostly in Cantonese and he couldn't make out a single word of it. But he knew he shouldn't be watching. Knew he shouldn't be listening. Like when he'd caught some of the older kids in Little Lamplight necking under the stairs of the clubhouse. He shouldn't be here and yet he couldn't move or look away.

“What are you doing here?” Jun's voice rang below.

Oh, no.

But when he noticed, Jun was walking toward Marcy, who was trying to retreat from him while wiping at her face.

“What do you mean, 'What am I doing here?' You're not the only one who gets to grieve, Jun!”

“I...I didn't mean...”

“Poor Jun! Everyone feels sorry for poor Jun! Oh, Jun is taking this so hard. Poor, poor Jun.” She stepped forward. Her voice was breaking. “Well, what about me, huh? What about poor Marcy?”

He reached out for her and she slapped his hand away.

“Don't you dare! Don't! I don't want your pity!” Her body shook, hands coming to cover her face for a few seconds. MacCready presumed she was holding back a sob. “Don't... Just don't... I'm so tired, Jun. I'm tired.”

“I know.”

MacCready slid down to sit, back against the railing, away from the couple.

“It was my fault. I let him go,” she wailed.

“No, Marcy. He fell.”

Her voice was high and breaking. “I can still feel his little hand slipping through my fingers. It haunts me every single night. Every single night.”

Jun made a shushing sound. Probably hugging her. That's what he'd do in his situation, anyway.

“I let him go and I'm a horrible mother.”

“You're an excellent mother. Kyle loved you more than anything.”

“I let him go.”

Shit. His wrists wiped away at the stray tears on his cheeks, and he was thankful for the darkness shielding him from view. He gave a quick glance back, just to make sure there was no immediate danger, and then looked away from the embracing pair.

“My baby... He was my baby.”

“I know.”

“I'm tired of pretending. I have to live with the guilt... And carrying you and all of Sanctuary on my back and I'm so tired of being alive. I wanna go to Kyle, Jun. I just want to be with my baby. I'm so tired. Is that so wrong?”

Jun responded in her language. MacCready didn't understand a word of it, but he heard Marcy keen in response and it made his chest clench. He knew that sound: the sound of bereavement. The sound of when the entire world collapsed on a person, when there was only emptiness in their chest, the yawning of a tired, grieving soul aching to find a resting place. Some found a reprieve in alcohol and chems and adrenaline. Others hid their pain behind a facade until they became unrecognizable. Then, there were those who were fortunate and had a kindred spirit with which to share their pain.

He took another gulp of whiskey.

He was tired, too.

* * *

A week later, he gave in to the itch to visit Goodneighbor, if only to check on whether he'd gotten news from the Wasteland. Daisy's Discounts was closed, much to his disappointment, with a hanging sign saying she'd be back in two hours. Figures. Off to the State House, it was!

Hancock, being the coolest ghoul in the Commonwealth, supplied him with booze, cigarettes (all the fucking cigarettes), and a few other chems. MacCready helped himself to an especially long drag, exhaling with trembling pleasure at the rush of nicotine warming his veins.

“Shit, Mac...If I'd've known you'd be making those noises, I would've sent the Watch out on an errand.”

He laughed as he felt his body melting into the plush velvet sofa. Exaggerated? No. The relief slicking down his muscles was better than sex. Okay, maybe not better, but damn close.

“You just missed her,” Hancock said, stubbing out a cigarette on the ashtray. “She was here, what? Some...three, four days ago?” When he didn't respond, he leaned closer and reached for the Mentats. “Trouble in paradise already?” God, not the Mentats again.

“Hey, fu...” He'd already broken his promise to Duncan once before. Deep breath. Calm down. “No. You know it's not even like that.”

“Does she?”

“Of course she knows. This was all her idea, remember?”

He shrugged and slumped back into the red couch. “Things change. People change.”

“Did she tell you?” It was his turn to lean forward, elbows perched on his knees. “Did she tell you what she did?”

“I dunno, brother. Did she?”

“Dammit, this isn't the time for your reverse psychobabble crap!” Shit. There went the promise again. His stubby fingernails rubbed at his scalp through his thick locks of hair and he sighed. So he told him: about Med Tek, about The Blue Plague, about Duncan, about the Minutemen and the graves. About everything.

When he only nodded in response, MacCready found he couldn't stop himself from talking. His words were like bile and he had the worst case of nausea right now.

“I never got to grieve Lucy. Not really, you know? Not with taking care of Duncan and making sure he was safe and fed and—and warm, and then I was working at the same time. I couldn't let him see me like that. Had to be strong for him. And now...” The words caught in his throat. “If I lose Duncan, too...” He gripped at the roots of his hair. “I don't know what to do. I don't know what I'll do if... If...”

“We'll cross that bridge if we get to it, brother,” Hancock said. The Mentat tablets clicked together over his tongue.

“I wanna—She's just walking around... And Duncan is probably still in bed. God, he could barely walk the last time I saw him. And she just gets away with it. Just like the rest of the prewar bastards.”

From the upper corner of his eyes, he sensed him nodding.

“And I want her to pay. For all of it.” And touch her. And taste her. And feel her body moving against his. “For Duncan. For Lucy. For putting all of us in this hellhole of a world.”

“Maybe she already is.”

MacCready flung a glower up at him. Hancock shrugged.

“Just a thought.”

How would he know that, unless he'd been having conversations with her? Had he? But, no, she talked to him all the time; she never tended to shut up, until recently. So Hancock wouldn't know anything he didn't, would he? Her son, her illness, her lack of close friends... No. That karma shit was all bullshit and she needed to pay. Personally. “Get off the Mentats, Hancock.”

He sneered at him, tongue sticking out in the most puerile expression, rolling three tablets around on the serpentining surface of his dusky pink muscle. Impressive. Hancock had always been good with his tongue, both verbally and physically, and it was bringing back memories of his first time in Goodneighbor, of “touring the town,” as he'd so fondly put it. And he longed for it. Not even the sex. But the way his feverish body had always clung to him after as if Hancock'd been afraid he'd disappear into the ether if he didn't hold onto his body.

“Ever heard of Edward Lorenz?” he asked.

MacCready narrowed his eyes. The fuck?

“Had to ask anyway, brother.” He readjusted himself, stretching one of his wiry legs over the couch. _Oh, God. Here we go. _“So this cat, Lorenz, is observing the weather one day, taking notes and shit, doing simulations and all that. Sets the terminal to run a simulation one day. Except, instead of using the previous, more precise value, he puts down...” His hands rose to punctuate the numbers. “.506.”

Okay... _What?_

“He'd put down a different value before. Can't remember what it was. But anyway, this one is just rounded up. They're decimals, so the difference is so small. I mean _pi_ ain't _really_ 3.14, but we say that because it's pretty fucking close enough—”

“Hancock.” He scrubbed his face with his empty hand. “Get. To the point.”

“My point, my dear Mac, is this: That infinitesimal difference created a completely different weather prediction.” Oh, boy. Here came the sciencey crap and the big words. Fuck Mentats. Fuck Med Tek and fuck them all. “It was such a small difference, like say... A bloatfly flapping its wings on the other side of the country; and yet that tiny, seemingly insignificant disturbance in the air could lead to, say... a radstorm here in the Commonwealth.”

Yeah, no. Still wasn't following. He flicked off the cherry from his cigarette, staring blankly at the ghoul if only to mask his simmering annoyance.

“As in, something seemingly tiny that happened somewhere or sometime far away, long ago can set off a chain of events that can prevent or accelerate certain situations. Like... Like your cigarette, right?” He popped two more Mentats into his mouth, and MacCready heard him crush them into powder between his teeth. “You let the embers fall. And what do they do? They wilt in the ashtray. They release heat and suck out oxygen from the air, turn it into carbon.” Something, something about disturbances in air pressure and Dewey decimal points and now the world was getting hotter or because a greenhouse farted or some shit and MacCready just about had it.

“...What? Just..._what?”_

“Try to keep up, Mac. I ain't exactly flapping my chops for my health here.” He sipped some scotch from his glass and set it down firmly on the table. “The bloatfly had no idea it was gonna cause a radstorm. The bloatfly was just out there doing bloatfly shit: flying, eating, shitting, trying to survive. That sort of shit. Doesn't change that flapping its wings basically _caused _the goddamn radstorm and fucked over a few million people.” He smacked his hands over his bony thighs. “And that, my friend is Edward Lorenz' Butterfly Effect. With some tweaks by yours truly, of course..”

Their eyes locked, blue on vast, glassy black.

“Now, the philosophical question is, 'Do we blame that particular bloatfly for the radstorm?'”

Aw, fuck. Fuck philosophy. MacCready sighed, tilting his head back on the couch. “Can't I just, I dunno...be mad at it?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely, brother. Especially, if it fucked your life up.” That couldn't be everything. If he knew Hancock, and he did, there was something scalding coming his way soon. He was just winding up the pitch. “But then you gotta wonder why you'd wanna spend so much time and energy being pissed off at some little bug for flying around on the other side of the world. What if a yao guai was chasing it, ya feel me? And besides, it was probably long dead by the time the radstorm actually started.”

“You said it was the other side of the country.”

He crunched on some more Mentats. “Same shit.”

MacCready groaned. “Forget it. Let's just...talk about something else.”

Hancock chuckled. “Whatever you say, brother.”

* * *

Pleasantly buzzed and sated, MacCready trudged over toward the city gate. Time to head back to Sanctuary. He supposed he could always visit in a few days to get news from Daisy. Or maybe he shouldn't. What if the news wasn't good? What if Julia had lied about the cure and ran from their deal? What if he... What if Duncan didn't make it? What if his body rejected the cure?

He glanced back at Daisy's store. Light was seeping through its windows, and the conspicuous sign was missing. She was back.

His lower legs felt like mirelurk meat. Cold. Slippery. Rubbery. And he wasn't sure they could hold him up long enough to make it to the store. Not to hear bad news. He couldn't handle more bad news.

The chiming bell alerted him to a door being opened. Daisy stood, using her hands as a visor to scan her surroundings, and jumped to a start when she noticed him. “MacCready!”

He pulled his mouth into a polite smile. “Daisy. How's the cutest ghoul around doing?”

“Oh, cut the crap. I've been lookin' for you all day! I heard you were shacked up at the State House, but I didn't think you'd spend the entire day there.” She pulled out a yellow envelope from her pocket. “Got something for ya.”

An envelope. News. From Duncan. When he hesitated to take it, she offered to open it with him inside the shop. To get him out of the cold, she claimed.

More of Hancock's philosophical crap was buzzing around his head like the goddamn bloatflies they'd been talking about. Schrödinger's something. Dog? Was it a dog? If MacCready didn't open the envelope, Duncan could both be alive and dead at the same time. But if he opened it, Duncan would definitely be one of both, and what if he was dead? He couldn't be dead. His entire life would fall apart into shambles if he lost Duncan, too. And what would he do then?

"You ready?"

But how else would he know if he didn't open it? How else would he know not to grieve, but to run to his son, to be with his broken little family again?

He felt hot, rough fingers wrapping around his hand. He steadied himself and then nodded at Daisy.

The paper slithered from the envelope, folded corners crackling open. He heard Daisy's rasp muttering along as she read.

Then she stopped.

"Oh. MacCready..."

He swallowed.

"He's... he's getting better," she said, voice trembling. "The boils are fading away."

MacCready bolted up, picked Daisy up by the waist and swung her around and around. "He's okay! Duncan's okay!" And he laughed, and he laughed and laughed and kissed her hot, wrinkly forehead.

"He's okay, kiddo. He's okay." She chuckled, returning his embrace with motherly warmth. This strange juxtaposition of emotions had him wanting to scream and laugh hysterically and cry until he lost his voice and he wasn't so sure he could handle so much at once. Daisy's hands smoothed down his arms, soothing him. "I'm so happy for you. You deserve it."

He lingered there, unsure whether he could trust the letter, these feelings, or his legs. “Thank you, Daisy. I couldn't have done it without your help.”

“No need to thank me, kiddo. Just promise me you'll get back home to him as soon as you can. Duncan needs his father.”

He nodded dumbly. “Yeah... Yeah.” He let out an incredulous chuckle. “I'm... I'm going right now.”

And so he started for the city gate, a plan in mind. He would leave a note in Sanctuary for Julia, telling her he was going home, to forget about everything, and then he'd hitch a ride on the next caravan heading south for DC. He would leave this hellhole behind, see Duncan, pick him up in his arms and kiss his sweaty little forehead and forget about everything and focus on what he _did _have. All thanks to Daisy.

He turned to wave goodbye, only for his mood to sour.

Daisy was doubled over, holding her stomach.

“Hey! Hey, what's wrong?” MacCready was racing toward her when he heard the click of a safety latch, and he stopped in his tracks. Couldn't turn around. A metal cylinder was pressing against his back. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Winlock and Barnes send their regards.”

It was loud.

And then everything burned.

And then it was dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lover, come hold me, head's on the fritz_   
_Gaudy intoxicated feelings comfortably mixed_   
_Lover, come hold me, could you forget?_   
_I've got a secret, digging a debt_
> 
> "Cringe" lyrics by Matt Maeson.  
Do I make you cringe? ;)


	9. Na Laetha Geal M'óige

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the attempt on MacCready and Daisy, the Minutemen decide the Gunners are a threat that can no longer go unchecked. MacCready and Julia open up to each other about their late spouses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said this was slow burn?
> 
> It's a conflagration.

Granules of golden sand like the stars in the heavens swirled below him, a howling sea weighing down every sinking step he took. A maelstrom sat at the center, leading to the other side. MacCready pushed a wave of sand over the hole with his foot.

He was falling. Falling and falling and everything he touched turned into liquid sand.

The gusts of wind whipped the grit against his face. He couldn't breathe, but he had to find Duncan. Sand flowed like tidal currents, sweeping him off his feet and dragging him far, far away and he was drowning and aching and his lungs hurt.

—_Daddy?_

—_Duncan!_

The boy was wrapped in so many blankets, stained in inky splotches. He sat up. His eyes were empty, putrid black holes. His tattered mouth opened by its fleshy, rotting tendrils and he snarled with teeth like needles, clawing at MacCready neck and he could hear Lucy screaming and—

“Hey, hey! You're fine. You're okay.”

The bleariness faded, his vision coming into focus on the figure looming over him. Tall, bronze-skinned, freckled, with eyes like a starless night. Julia. All of her stars were on her cheeks and nose.

“We almost lost you for a moment,” she said, carding her fingers through his hair and he couldn't help his eyes from shutting at the soothing touch against his scalp. Breathing deeply felt like something stabbing him in the waist, so he kept his breaths even and shallow. “I came as soon as Hancock called. I just wish I'd gotten here sooner.”

He groaned, trying to sit up. Nope. Not happening. He lay back down. “Daisy?” His voice was grainy, rough. Stimpaks and Med-X.

There went those fingers. Over and over and over again, lulling him back into a daze. “She got hurt pretty bad.” And it was all his fault. If she hadn't followed him out, they wouldn't have gotten her. “If she weren't a ghoul, I don't think she would have made it.”

“She's...” He couldn't finish the sentence. Too tired. Woozy. The wallpaper pattern was scrolling endlessly down the walls and they looked like they were melting.

“She's with Dr. Amari and another doctor from out of town. They're taking good care of her. But you need to stay here and rest. You got pretty banged up yourself.” Her hand was warm over his. Made his eyelids nice and heavy. Her voice was quiet and silky when she said, “I thought I was going to lose you.”

A soft rattling and there was a small piece of plastic against his lips. A straw.

“Drink up. Those chems make your mouth feel like dirt, don't they?”

Or sand.

The lukewarm water was a balm to the sticky dry hell in his mouth; he could still make out each individual taste bud scratching against the grooves of his palate.

“Daisy told me about Duncan.”

Too weak to verbalize, he gave a nod.

Her eyes were all kindness and the gentle heat of morning sunshine rising over the hills of her cheeks. “I'm so glad, RJ.” Her gaze dipped to her lap for a moment and her smile faltered. “I know I got no business saying that to you, but... I am. I'm so happy.”

The sheets were warm. MacCready closed his eyes, just for a moment, sinking into the cozy ocean of blankets beneath him.

“It's the only way,” he heard Hancock say. “The Railroad's got tech no one else has.”

“I ain't trying to get involved with another group.”

He shut his heavy eyes again. Sweat glued the material of his clothes and sheets to his exposed skin.

“You gotta stay strong, okay?” Julia. “Duncan's waiting for you.” Her hands were wrapped around his. Hot like the muzzle of a smoking gun. “We're gonna get our boys back, RJ. We are. But ya gotta hang in there for me.”

_Our boys._

_For me._

“Why do you care?” he croaked.

Behind the veil of his eyelids, he couldn't tell what kind of face she was making, but he could hear the change of pace in her breathing, the soft, wet smack of her lips parting, the whispering of fabric as she changed her position.

“I dunno.” Fingers in his hair. “I guess I just do.”

Fair enough.

When MacCready woke up, it was late in the morning. Dust motes were careening slowly in the rays of light pouring in from the window. Felt like it was past 10 but not much later than noon, although he'd been out for so long, his internal clock was likely unreliable. After taking a quick shower (whoever had given him room and board, probably Hancock, had set him up in a suite with a proper bathroom this time) he went to look for Daisy, only to find she'd vacated three days earlier. The woman was a workaholic, even with several stab wounds to the stomach.

So he headed downstairs for a bite, bags packed to leave.

She'd almost died, all because of his stupidity. One stupid decision (or several) at the age of sixteen haunted him to this very day. Had it not been for him joining the Gunners, he wouldn't have had to run into the tunnels with his family. If he hadn't joined the Gunners, Lucy would still be alive. If he hadn't joined the Gunners, Duncan wouldn't have gotten sick. If he hadn't joined the Gunners, he would have never met this devil of a woman and Daisy would never have gotten hurt trying to see him off.

He spotted Julia's cloud-like ponytail; she was drinking a can of purified water, though he didn't miss the way her hands trembled around it. Withdrawal? From what? She didn't take many chems when she'd been around him. Was this new? He doubted a man like Preston Garvey would allow his General to partake of such substances.

“Where's Preston?” he asked.

“Sanctuary. Rounding up the troops,” she said with a dry laugh.

The urge to ask whether she'd preemptively fucked his life up had MacCready grinding his teeth. He was better than this.

He'd survived the assault. And knowing the Gunners, that had been their intention. Another one of their warnings. And if they'd gone through Daisy's things, and he just _knew_ those fuckers had, they'd know where to find Duncan, and he'd be next. No, he had to get out of here. He had to find Duncan before they got to him.

“Hey.” Her hand was on his arm. “What's going on?”

No. Not another debt.

But these were the Gunners. He couldn't do this on his own. Even if he were suicidal, he still had Duncan to think of. Getting himself killed wouldn't do his son any good. So, MacCready braced himself and squared his shoulders as his pride slid down the depths of his gullet.

“The Gunners. They did this to Daisy. And to me.” He wet his stinging, cracked lips. “And if I don't put a stop to them, they'll get Duncan.”

Her eyes were doing that scanning thing, like she was processing, until they stopped, fixed on his. “We'll get 'em, Mac. I promise.”

“I wouldn't be asking you if I...” _Goddammit._ “If I didn't...trust you.”

Her dark eyebrows softened around her eyes. “I promise.” Her lips had a sly little quirk. “Besides, the Minutemen've got some history with the Gunners.” The deadly flash in her eyes was eerie and gave him goosebumps and if she got any closer he wasn't sure he could hold back from kissing her. “We're gonna _annihilate_ them.”

* * *

Mass Pike Interchange cut through the twilight sky like a ragged saw. Rusted cables dangled off chipped concrete panels, with collapsed sections of ramps winding below the skyway. Even from this distance, the orange glow of fires made their presences stark in the withering darkness of the night. Twenty-five Minutemen, all from different settlements, lined up in three neat rows while Preston barked out the gameplan: Four snipers would surround the perimeter at different vantage points and radio in positions to Julia—or General Vidal, as he insisted she be called; five, including Julia and MacCready, would use the provided Stealth Boys (courtesy of Goodneighbor) to sneak to the top via the elevators and disable any power armor, heavies, and, most likely, Winlock and Barnes; once she fired the flare gun, the sixteen left over would take the brunt of the hit on the ground, where MacCready insisted most of the Gunners were, and the surviving Minutemen would aid from above and afar.

“I want stealth here,” Julia added. “Slow, steady and quiet. I don't want them to know we're here until it's too late. We can't afford any losses here. Not after Quincy.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Preston saluted.

On cue, her little soldiers saluted her. MacCready attempted a wave, but he wasn't feeling it; he wasn't feeling anything but nauseated.

“If anyone of you cats captures Winlock or Barnes before MacCready does, make sure they're alive,” she said, flicking her finger against her silly little tricorn hat. “I'll make sure there's a hefty bonus in it for ya.”

They exchanged a glance. This was it. Either this faction of the Gunners went down in flames, or MacCready's life would. Before he could steady his breath, she grabbed him by the collar of his duster and crushed her lips to his. He let his eyes close, his body relaxing against hers. Pretending this was not all for show. Pretending she actually cared. And now he had to pretend he didn't. She pulled back, her chest heaving just as he was out of breath.

“Don't die,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said dumbly. “Y—you, too.”

You, too?

_You, too?_

What the fuck kind of stupid ass answer was that? He wanted to kick himself, but he was far too busy running toward the elevator with a cloaked Minuteman, who identified herself with a few well-timed flicks of her lighter. Julia would be on the elevator on the other side with two others. Ideally, they'd have radio communications so they could coordinate the elevators, but he would just have to press the button and wish for the best. Knife in hand, he steeled himself for the battle awaiting him at the top of the freeway.

The climb was painfully slow, considering everything was riding on the success of this mission. If a single one of them escaped and made it to Baker, or worse, Wes, the Gunners would come at the Minutemen and MacCready with full force. No, they had to die. Every single one of them.

“What in the fuck?” A Gunner conscript was staring at the elevator MacCready was standing on. “Did one of you chucklefucks mess with the elevators again?”

“Shaddup, Charlie!” called a voice from below. “We're tryin' to sleep down here!”

So much for catching them unaware. Then again, he could take a cue from Julia and just hide in the chaos.

Hide in the chaos.

He couldn't feel his partner next to him anymore, so he assumed she'd sneaked off into the camp. MacCready held his breath as he toed his way behind Charlie. There were probably five minutes left on the Stealth Boy. Time to strike.

The blade of his tactical knife plunged into the Gunner's voicebox. It twisted with a snap of the hyoid and he dropped to the floor.

Across from him, he saw a limp assaultron standing by the other elevator. There were a few turrets, completely still. Hacked and powered down. The click of handguns alerted him to the others around him, followed by the scrape of shoes against the ground. A few of them needed to work on their sneak factor. On his way in, there were a few bodies with slit throats. All Gunners.

“Hey, what the fuck is going on out there?” One of their commanders stomped out of his shack in his stupid clunky power armor. He looked down at a dead body, and when he glanced back up, he was staring right at MacCready.

Shit. His Stealth Boy had run out.

A few of the Minutemen had fizzled back into view, too, including the one looming over the commander's head. A pull of the trigger on his silenced pistol and the tin can fell over, dead.

He heard the hiss of a cartridge and then a heavy thud inside the shack. Some muffled grunting and Julia stepped out, long legs striding with the jumpy swagger of Jet.

“Barnes is in there waiting for you when you're finished,” she said with a waggle of her eyebrows. “Better go catch Winlock if you want that bonus, soldier.”

The nickname didn't have time to sink in and burn. Not until he'd put a bullet in the last Gunner's head. They looked like soldiers, acted like soldiers. Hell, he'd told Lucy he'd been a soldier. But they were nothing but filthy mercenaries. Just like he was.

A gagged Winlock was in the grasp of MacCready's elevator mate, who was dragging him by the shitty haircut.

“Matthews! Excellent,” Julia said with a clap of her hands. “I'll make sure you have a little something extra, for your restraint. Put him in with the other one, please.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She tilted her head in the direction of the shack. “You going in, or...?”

Dumbfounded, he snapped his jaw back up.

“We can take it from here, Mac.” A pat on his shoulder. “We've got their assaultrons, some power armor... Davis even found us a couple of few mini-nukes... We're straight.”

“Yeah.” He nodded because it was all he could think to do. “Thanks.”

Outside the shack, he heard the loud pop of the flare gun, saw the bright crimson rocketing into the gray-blue sky from between the tin slats of the ceiling. Then, the trill of assault rifles, the thunder of ground-shaking explosions. A massacre. This was a surgically-precise massacre. And Julia was treating this like it was part of a game. He wasn't sure whether to feel scared or turned on.

Winlock and Barnes grunted at him, struggling in vain against their bindings. _Nothing like a couple of farmers to properly hogtie a person, _he thought with a smirk as he undid their gags.

“You fucking coward,” Winlock spat. “I knew we shoulda killed ya when ya bailed!”

“What are you waiting for?” Barnes grunted. “Get it over with.”

Yes, what was he waiting for? Again, he'd never thought he'd make it this far and now he was out of ideas. These two hadn't been directly responsible for Quincy; together, they had the intelligence of a molerat on Psycho. Therefore, the Minutemen hadn't formulated a plan of what to do with these two.

Another explosion.

But they'd threatened him for too long. They'd hurt Daisy. And they'd had the gall to indirectly threaten Duncan's safety. And for that, they had to die.

“I'd like to be able to say this _isn't_ personal and that it's just business,” he said in a small voice. He trained his rifle against Barnes' head and squeezed the trigger.

Because he wanted to see the expression on Winlock's blood-spattered face.

MacCready shrugged. “But it is.”

A second shot froze the Gunner's horror in time.

* * *

The trip back to Sanctuary involved a lot of him sleeping, resting on his less-bruised side, and more sleeping. With those two gone, it'd only be a matter of time before the rest of the Gunners wanted to reclaim their little waystation. Preston had assured him that there were plans in the works to take down their headquarters in Quincy. And then maybe, just maybe—Preston claimed—the Commonwealth would sleep a little easier at night. MacCready wasn't sure whether he believed that. Preston Garvey seemed to think he could save the world, one good deed at a time; MacCready knew that humanity was rotten at its core, beyond redemption. Any attempt to fix it was futile, a waste of time, the ephemeral warm feeling from reading a children's book.

While the rest of the Minutemen headed back into their barracks, he caught sight of Julia lingering at the graveyard. Her clumped hair tumbled out onto her shoulders from her tricorn hat when she took it off. She was standing over Nate's grave. No visible tears this time, just silent reflection.

Their eyes met. A flash of heat crawled up his neck. To his surprise, she smiled at him, despite having intruded on a private moment, and waved him over.

Kyle's grave had a delicate wreath of pale blue aster flowers resting above it; one of his parents must have woven it. A few small graves had been dug since he'd last been here, about three more: two marked with a wooden stake, and another with a heavy stone, much like Nate's. So, was everyone burying their dead now? Was this supposed to be some community effort, to bond with each other? It pissed him off. And not knowing exactly _why _it pissed him off made him want to drink himself to sleep.

“Do you actually believe any of that?” he asked, bringing his cigarette to his mouth. “That you can save the world? Like Preston does?”

She puffed out a cloud of icy white, a wry curl to her mouth. “No,” she sighed. “No, I don't. Wish I did, but...I don't.”

“Then, why do this? You've got your own problems to worry about.”

And now it was in her fingers, drawing closer, closer, closer... Perched between her lips. He didn't even know she smoked until she took a deep puff, squinting through the exhale. Julia shrugged. “I was like Preston when I was younger. Wanted to change the world.” She gave a sardonic scoff. “But I guess after being defrosted and nuked and seeing nothing's changed... I don't know. I mean, we all live here together, right? Might as well take care of each other while we're still here.”

She handed him back the cigarette, her deep red lipstick print marking its thin circumference.

“Raiders and Gunners and corrupt assholes will always exist. But if you don't carve out a little happiness around you... What else is there?”

Survival.

And, God, was he tired of just surviving.

At the threat of tears, he twiddled with the steel jack in his pocket, only for his fingers to brush against something softer, wooden. He swallowed, taking the carved toy soldier out in his hand, lacquered in faded green and black.

“What's that?” Julia asked, breaching the gap between them. “Did you make that?”

He snorted. “Do I look like the artistic type to you?” He had steady hands, but he'd no patience for the impractical. Too busy looking over his shoulder. He wet his lips and took a deep, warming drag, letting the nicotine flood his nerves into submission. “My wife Lucy gave this to me right after we met.”

“Can I?”

Looking at her from the corner of his eyes, he saw a childlike spark lighting up her face. He handed her the toy and she inspected its grooves, the chipped paint, the detailing on the rifle (that had been his favorite part of it), fingers sweeping over the suede-like texture of the sanded-down wood.

“Her parents were farmers. Lucy, she... She was an artist. She was always so creative. Made all of these sculptures and she designed furniture. She was great.” He swallowed. “I, uh...told her I was a soldier.” There it was. The tsunami of guilt breaking over his entire being. “And she made it for me. Never could bring myself to tell her the truth...that I was just a hired killer. ”

She'd stopped playing with the toy, focused on him. He felt like she was undressing him, and not in the fun way, trying to figure him out again and he felt cold and tiny and pathetic.

“I, uh...” _Oh, the irony._ “I panicked. It was the best thing I could come up with. I didn't want to lose her because of what I was. Started out as a joke, but... I guess I wasn't expecting to...” Fall so hard. To become so incandescently and utterly infatuated with her. “And then she got pregnant with Duncan and by then I figured it was too late. I, uh...I didn't have it in me to break her heart.”

He really was a piece of shit, wasn't he? Lying to some sixteen-year-old girl, knocking her up, and then leaving her to die in a subway full of ferals.

“No matter how bad things got, she was always there with a shoulder to lean on. She had this smile—you had to see it—like, I dunno. Like everything was gonna be alright. She just made you believe that. It was always just what I needed.” He moistened his lips. “It gave me the courage I needed to press ahead. To never give up.”

When he looked over, he couldn't tell what the lack of expression on her face meant, but she was doing that head tilt thing again.

“You ever get the feeling she knew?” she finally asked.

“I just told you. I never got the chance to tell her,” he replied gruffly. “Why would you say that?”

Her attention was back on the toy soldier, tracing it with her fingertips. “I'm just thinking: What armies were there back in the Commonwealth, other than the Brotherhood of Tin?”

By the time he'd met Lucy, the Enclave had fizzled out, thanks to the Brotherhood and the Lone Wanderer. Other than Raiders, Gunners and the random town militia, there were none he could think of.

“I really don't know, so I'm just spitballin' here. My husband comes back after a long absence, he's probably all bruised up and bandaged and he comes back with a handful of caps every time... And, really: What is a mercenary but a soldier without the starry-eyed idealism?”

He would have taken another drag, but his cigarette was down to a stub. Shit. He ran his hand over his mouth if only to give it something to do.

“Besides. I don't know if you know this, but lemme tell you something, as a friend.” She chuckled and placed the toy in his palm and he wanted to cry. “You're a terrible liar, Mac.”

_You're a terrible liar, Robert Joseph MacCready. _

Lucy had told him so whenever she'd try out a new recipe, only for it to taste like sawdust. He'd forced his best grin and held his breath trying to swallow that slop down, but she'd known. Every time. The time she'd wanted to go swimming and he'd tried to play off his fear and inability by feigning his hatred of getting wet. She'd smiled at him with that conspiratorial look. She'd known. Every lie. She'd known. And she'd stayed.

He truly was a piece of shit.

MacCready laughed. And he laughed and he wasn't sure if he was crying at the same time, but Julia joined in, and his head was on her shoulder.

A few minutes passed after their giggling died down, and he inspected the old toy one more time.

“I never got to bury her,” he blurted out. “We were holed up at a metro station, the three of us. Didn't realize it was full of ferals. Got her before I could fire a single shot. They...” His lungs felt like they were on fire. “They tore her apart in front of me. Took everything I had to run away with Duncan.”

Not a single platitude. Not a word.

“This is all I have left of her. And I dunno whether I wanna leave it in a hole underground, or if I wanna take it to Duncan, or if I should...” He shrugged as if that would stop the tremor in his voice. “Carry it. To remind me of her. Of how guilty I am.”

“I can't answer that for you. But if you want Lucy to have a place here, we can make that happen right now. Just say the word.”

If only to hide the sorrowful grimace contorting his face, MacCready stepped away from her, knuckles to his mouth. He nodded. And so she fetched a pair of shovels, likely the very pair used to bury her husband, and they dug into the irradiated earth, uncovering the dark silt below with the scent of a rainstorm.

“I don't know what to...I don't have anything to put in it,” he said, clutching the toy soldier.

“You don't have to,” she said, resting her elbow on the shovel. “It's more of a symbol. A memorial.”

He nodded, feeling all the moisture in his mouth fleeing behind his eyes, and when she asked whether he was ready, he fidgeted in his pocket. The jack. He pulled it out.

“It's alright. I have a couple more if you want a replacement.”

Another dumb shake of the head and he placed it in the silt. It didn't take long for the earth to cover it over in a neat little mound. Lucy's memorial. She finally had a resting place. A year and a half of marriage, eighteen years of effervescent life, laid to rest under a pile of humble dirt, not near beautiful enough to represent the angelic presence she'd had in his life. He heard Julia suggest something about flowers. Yeah. Lucy would have liked flowers. The more beautiful, the better. She deserved that much from him.

Her hand on his shoulder prompted him to look back. “You want a minute alone?”

To talk to her. To confess his sins. To apologize and tell her he still loved her and that Duncan was growing and that he'd worked so hard to keep him safe all these years. About the Blue Plague, and the cure. They had a lot of catching up to do, didn't they? “Yeah,” he whispered.

Footsteps crunched away at the dirt, starting to recede.

And yet he was empty and raw and...

“Jules...Wait.”

Thankfully, she responded to the nickname and returned to his side, arms around his slender frame without him asking. Into the crook of her neck, MacCready wept and wailed and Julia held him, his fingers clutching at her duster, not trusting himself to stand on his own. His stomach convulsed and his sternum felt like it was splitting, and he cried until his throat was sore and his tears ran empty.

Back at their quarters, they sat on the floor, backs against the mattress and he talked about her: Lucy with the ocean breeze in her hair. Lucy with the sunshine smile. Lucy with the voice like morning dew. His Lucy. He praised her artistry, her kindness, and understanding, laughed about her lack of culinary prowess, expressed his regret in not having told her the truth on his own.

Until there was nothing else left to say and the long day's exhaustion overtook him.

* * *

He woke up to find a blanket over him and an empty room. His neck, shoulders, and ribs hurt and not from the fight at the Interchange. No, he felt that battle deep in his hamstrings, his shins, and calves. Admitting all of that out loud last night had taxed him of energy and strength and he'd be a liar if he said he didn't feel nervous waking up alone after having bared his soul.

Convincing himself Julia must've had some errands to run, he went to the bathhouse and got himself cleaned up of dirt, sweat, and Gunner blood. On his way to steal a snack from the kitchen, he caught sight of the memorial he'd dug last night. A single white flower had been laid on top of it. The only other person who'd known about it had been Julia. The thought of her taking the time to find an intact flower and placing it there made his heart swell.

MacCready headed back to Julia's quarters. Maybe if he was sneaky enough—and he usually was—he could get away with a quick nap in the bed. Gravity was clinging and pulling at every fiber of his muscles like a needy child demanding attention and he'd give in if it meant it would stop. He stripped off his outer layers, hung them by the entrance and went up the stairs in his long johns. Only to find he wasn't alone.

“Ouch.” Julia, clad in nothing but a pair of discolored white briefs and a bra, stood before the mirror, taking a straight razor to the mangled tufts of hair at her temples. A large thicket of hair surrounded her feet, straighter hair once connected to the much curlier hair still on her crown and top of her head. There were patches at her nape where he could make out the lighter skin of her scalp; he hadn't seen those before, though he chalked it up to how she usually wore her hair. Eyes roaming down her body, he couldn't see the rash as much, save for a few spots over her left rib and abdomen. The remains of her luscious curves hung in striated skin against hard panels of solid, honed, bruised muscle as if her body hadn't able to keep up with the sudden and drastic change. The gray circles under her eyes and jutting cheekbones told him everything he needed to know: Julia was wasting away.

The razor clattered next to the pair of scissors on the vanity when their eyes met, but she didn't turn around.

“Want some help?” he asked. He shouldn't have, but he did.

She worried her bottom lip for a moment before whispering, “Yeah.”

After MacCready divested himself of his top, shuddering at the thought of having tiny hairs embedded in the fabric and pricking at his skin (Butch from Rivet City never had listened to his requests for a covering of some sort when he'd gone to him for his haircuts, that greasy little bastard), he swept the hair from the floor and stood behind her with the razor.

“Tilt your head to the side for me,” he murmured and she shivered, much to his liking. Was she scared of him? Even after the other night? Or was it a response to his breath over her neck? He exhaled and got the same response.

Julia inhaled and her eyelids flitted shut. “That tickles.”

“Just stay still already. I'm standin' on my toes.”

It was slightly different than when he shaved, the hairs on her temples and nape giving into the blade without a hint of resistance. He wasn't much of a barber, but he was used to touching up on the road every now and then; few people weren't nowadays. After asking permission, he took the scissors to the rogue strands of straight hair and cut them down to where the texture changed drastically.

“I guess the Glowing Sea did a number on me, huh?” she joked.

He glanced at her through the mirror. “You're lucky it didn't kill you.”

Her result was a crest of thick, springy coils, some of which flopped over one of her eyes. She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror with an emotion he could not name, other than calling it 'conflict.' “I look like a rooster.”

“Like a really sexy rooster.”

There was that smile again. “Stupid.”

His thumb brushed away the stray clippings on her collarbone and he felt her body tighten. Their eyes met through the reflection, midday blue with midnight black. It was then he remembered their state of undress. Not that he'd forgotten; Julia had the type of body he couldn't just ignore, but he'd pushed the thought to the back of his mind for the task. Until now. His lips were so close to her shoulder and, if she'd let him, he'd test out just how sensitive the flesh on her neck was, set his hands to wander over her body until he found the spots that made her sigh and melt. He was so close, he could see her pulse racing under her skin. Shit, what was he? A vampire?

She spun around, wearing that conflicted look once again. As if she wasn't sure whether she liked or hated this. The drop of her gaze told him everything he needed to know, and while his gut felt hollow at the rejection, he stepped away from her and went to go put his shirt back on.

“I never told Nate who I really was.”

He'd been in the middle of threading his arms through the sleeves, his wiry frame hunched over.

“He knew I was an activist, but he didn't... I...” Her hand feinted up to her shoulder, only to cross over her scarred waist. She wet her lips. “When my father died, I started to hang with this crowd of poets and musicians and activists. We were so angry at everything. The military bases, the drafts, the surveillance, the experiments, and the forced sterilizations...They forced my father into the army and then made him sick. And when he complained about it, they shot him.

“Anyway, we thought we could change the world, get our little islands back from the Big Bad Wolf. But they kept coming and... They tried to force my little brother to serve, and when he gave them the finger, they threw him in prison. Last I'd heard of him, he was out on the streets selling chems.

“So then one of the leaders of the rebellion suggested we should start demonstrating on their turf... That's how I made it over here, as a student. Well, New Jersey. I don't know what it's called now.”

“Eastern Commonwealth,” he said, slipping the shirt back on. “It's lumped in with the Capital Wasteland. It's kind of a sh... crap hole.”

“Nothing has changed, then,” she laughed and sat on the bed. He sat on the floor, leaning against the frame. “Anyhow, our group had different cells assigned to different jobs. My group was in charge of infiltration and relaying information back to headquarters. They, um... My job was to get close with someone in the military, steal a few blueprints. And... that person turned out to be Nate.”

The stiffness in her smile in that holo. It'd all been fake.

“I wasn't supposed to fall for him, but... But, then I did. He was sweet. We argued a lot over important stuff, but he was so loyal, he would have taken a bullet for me.” She bit her lip. “And, well, I guess he did.”

“You think he suspected?”

There was a hint of self-deprecation in her crooked smile. “I don't know. I think...” She sighed and bit her lip. “I think he thought I was cheating on him after he came home from Anchorage. The war took his leg and he... Well, he was never quite the same after that. He got so paranoid and controlling. And angry. _God,_ he was so angry. My Nate was so gentle, Mac. And it's like they replaced him with someone else. He was so mad that he couldn't do work anymore, but he didn't want me to work either because it 'made him look bad.' And then he was mad we couldn't keep the lifestyle.” She shook her head. “They used him. They chewed him out and spit him back out and I wasn't going to stand for that. I'd seen it too many times. My dad, my brother, the boys back in my hometown... And then my husband. Funny thing is, he never blamed the government or the military. Oh, he used to get so mad at me for saying it was their fault.

“I was supposed to take that crowd-control grenade to the Museum of Freedom. But by then I was pregnant with Shaun and I...I'd already lost one, and I...I couldn't do it. My handler ended up doing it without me...And they caught him. Executed him a few weeks later.”

Julia reached a hand up, wiping a stray tear. “I used to be so smitten with him, too. But Beauchamp only ever saw me as a little kid. Even gave me away at the wedding.”

So, the man with silver hair had been her handler.

“But the year I got into Med Tek, something clicked, and I was head over heels for Nate. I'd led him on at first but, after that...I started to understand what all the stupid love songs were about,” she said with a sardonic laugh. “And then Anchorage happened, and...”

She stopped talking after that. The bed creaked when she stood, the blunt padding of her feet leading away to a set of clothes she put on. She was rubbing at her arm when she returned to the bed, and then she sprawled her figure beneath the blankets.

“Go ahead,” she said. Her cheek against the pillow, but her eyes were locked on his. “Judge away. I know you want to.”

What was he supposed to think? They'd both lied to their spouses, but she'd created an entire life without hers. She'd lied about her family and she'd used her husband to advance her interests. But, hadn't he done the same thing, ultimately? He'd only lied to get her to sleep with him, hadn't he? And when their trysts turned into a pregnancy, he'd lacked the guts to fess up and he'd married her instead. Sure, he'd fallen for her, too, but it didn't change the fact that he was a dirty liar and a coward.

“I don't think I have room to judge. We're two sides of the same coin, right?” He leaned his head back. Lucy had come from a good family; when she'd met me, she'd left them behind to be with him, whom she'd claimed was her one true love, her fairy tale prince, her happily ever after.

“The only true repentance is changed behavior,” she said like she was quoting something.

“Have you?”

She snorted. “I dunno. It isn't like I've been hiding my worst from you.” And then, in a quieter voice, she added, “You've pretty much seen me naked in every sense of the word.”

Boy, had he. There was plenty to like, and so much to cringe at, and he couldn't decide what to make of it: She was a war criminal responsible for participating in human experiments, attempted assassinations, of abusing the downtrodden to further her cause, and her impulsive nature often hurt those around her. But she was also a victim, and she was kind and giving and hardworking, a champion for the same people she'd stepped over. She was a great listener and she was so fucking smart. And could be so fucking stupid at the same time.

A beat of silence and then he asked, “Why are you telling me all this, anyway?”

He heard the sheets rustle behind him.

“I dunno. I guess I'm tired of hiding. And you're easy to talk to.”

“Me?” he scoffed.

She hummed. “And transparent as hell.”

Okay, he didn't know how to feel about that one. He swiveled to his knees and found that little smirk that sent his pulse aflutter. “I am not.”

“Mm-hmm. Your face always says everything for you. When you don't like something, or when you _really _like something, when you're hiding...” She giggled. “It's all in your eyes.”

Fuck. She was probably seeing how red hot his face felt under her scrutiny, too. “Oh...Oh, yeah? Well...Then, what are my eyes telling you right now?”

If this were one of those old Western holotapes, there would have been tumbleweeds in the middle of this stand-off. Unlike in real life, however, Julia was quick to the draw and precise.

“That we're both pieces of shit and that you wanna get your lil' bony ass in this bed with me.” She flashed a feline grin.

MacCready tried to swallow, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Fragments of words sputtered from his mouth like a dying vertibird engine, but his attempts to form a coherent thought failed and crashed.

“Well? Hurry up.” She lifted the covers. “I'm cold and I'm tired. Aren't you?”

“Hel...heck yeah, I'm tired!” MacCready huffed and crawled underneath, where it was warm and cozy and her body was melting around him so deliciously and it was just what he needed. Tension bled out of his muscles when she wrapped her arm around his waist and held him close, her cheek resting against his back. Lucy used to be the little spoon when they'd been married, but he wasn't a stranger to the position. And right now he needed this. Whatever it was. She wasn't Lucy, and this wasn't sex, but it was a grounding pleasure, rooting him in the moment. And for the first time in a while, he felt like the tides of time wouldn't sweep him away.

She'd never claimed to be a good person. Neither did he. They were just two broken souls trying to put themselves back together, to change, to fix themselves in each other's vicinity. And for now, MacCready was okay with that. It was what he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Give it to me: Concrit. You don't even have to be gentle about it. I can take it. How can I do better? What am I doing right so that I can keep doing it?


	10. Precious and Fragile Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Railroad agrees to aid the Minutemen. MacCready comes to terms with the dialectics of his feelings.

For a clandestine organization, in his opinion, The Railroad was a little too on the nose. From having its headquarters underground to the parallels between synths and slaves, (Julia had _not_ been amused with the comparison and she'd made it known to Desdemona) to the sneaking around at night and the code words... They were a joke. Then, there was that sleazy guy with the inexplicable sunglasses and the extra medium t-shirt. _Deacon._ Why did he look so goddamn familiar? He hated the way he talked, the way his voice crooned whenever he was close to Julia, the way he towered over her. The man had made a career of being a bald-faced liar. Pun super-fucking intended. Because fuck that guy. 

Naturally, the Railroad was going to squeeze all they could get out of Julia before agreeing to examine that Courser chip; they proved his theory by sending her on the most inane quest: hitch a ride to Lexington, say some secret password to get into their old safe house and then...kill a bunch of synths? Wasn't it their entire life's work to save synths? Did reprogramming them not work? (He seriously didn't know; robots, much like aliens, fell into that uncanny valley and they gave MacCready the sweats.)

Several bruises, flesh wounds, and dead partner corpses later, Desdemona had the gall to ask her to join her club. No drinks, no food, just an invitation to work more, for free. Julia opened her chapped lips to speak, but no words came out. There was a foggy, unfocused look in her eyes and an ashen tinge to her naturally vibrant skin.

“Well?” Desdemona demanded.

“Lemme borrow the boss here for just one second.” It wasn't his place to speak, but that never stopped MacCready anyway. He grabbed her wrist and towed her to the back room. “You're not seriously thinking of joining them, are you?”

Her fingers raked through her roots and she sighed, slumping against the wall. “I don't know, Mac...I don't know what to do anymore. Every day I don't find Shaun is a day he's probably out there thinking I abandoned him.”

“Hey, look. I get it. But you won't find him if you work yourself to death.”

The wrinkle between her brows told him that was the wrong thing to say, so he smoothed his hands down her arms as if that would iron away the damage.

“And I know you don't have much of a choice. All I'm saying is, let me help you.”

She gave a languid blink.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Julia sighed. “Yesterday.”

In Sanctuary, it'd be past dinnertime right now. “Jesus, boss.” He patted her shoulder. “Let me help you on this one.”

“RJ, I can't afford to mess this up.”

“Hey, I'm not gonna mess it up. I can be charming.” Though with how frustrated he was, that quality might not translate well. Julia's shoulders sagged and, when she nodded weakly, MacCready took the helm.

Deacon and Desdemona seemed to be in the middle of an argument when he stepped back into the room, but MacCready had neither the time nor the patience to indulge them.

“Listen up: Boss is offering the blueprint for the, uh...” Crap, what was the name? Whatever. It didn't matter. “The only way to get into the Institute. Now, she ain't gonna get in your way if you wanna go and free all the synths or whatever, but she's done enough for you. The Institute has her son and he's the priority. Now, you can either take it or leave it.”

His voice echoed throughout the stony crypts and he had to resist the urge to cringe. Behind those mirrored glasses, he couldn't tell what Deacon was thinking and he hated that. Desdemona, however, had her arms crossed and a scowl hanging from the fine lines around her mouth. But they were considering it and that was good enough for him.

“Finding her son comes before any Railroad mission. Otherwise, the deal's off. Are we clear on that?”

Desdemona tapped her spindly fingers against her opposite arm. Her nostrils flared before she spoke. “Fine. We will work together, seeing as we've determined we can trust you. You may leave the Courser chip with Tinker Tom and we will signal you when it's done.”

MacCready managed a half-hearted tip of the hat to her and led a moribund Julia away to their shared room at the Rexford. He left her in the bed while he elbowed his way through Claire's kitchen and sauteed a handful of silt beans and Cram slices in brahmin butter. He tossed them onto a plate with all the finesse of a drunken lay and woke Julia up with a few taps to the shoulder.

“I didn't know you cooked,” she mumbled sleepily.

“I have kitchen duty at least four times a week when we're in Sanctuary.”

She slurped a buttered silt bean pod into her mouth with childlike delight. “Yeah. Prepping.”

He shrugged. “It's a survival skill. I had to feed myself and Duncan somehow.”

Julia gave a thoughtful nod before polishing off her plate and licking the traces off her fingers. When she'd said she'd last eaten yesterday, had she meant at breakfast? She set the plate aside and sank against the headboard with a pleased little sigh.

“You gotta stop doing that, boss.” When her response was a dumbfounded tilt of her head, he continued, “It's not gonna do anyone any good if you work yourself to death. I mean, I get that you're worried. I do. Trust me. But you can't do everything by yourself.”

In the stretch of silence he thought he'd offended her again, she let her legs hang off the side of the bed, perched her elbows on her knees and rubbed her hands against her face. “I'm tired, Mac. I'm so tired. But what choice do I have?” She stretched out her hands—spreading them, contracting them, and he watched the ligaments slide over her knotted joints, swollen and darkened. Looked painful, like each knuckle on her fingers had been sprained. “Everyone needs help. And I wanna help, but it's...” She shook her head. “Whenever a problem gets fixed, twelve more pop up. But if I don't keep going, I'm not gonna find him.”

The wrinkle between her winged brows made a quick reappearance before a vacant look glazed over her eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it happen. After some of the town meetings at Sanctuary, or a particularly harrowing favor on behalf of some settlement, Julia tended to space out and few things got her to respond other than brusque physical contact. She shut down and hid in that shadowy world of the recesses of her mind, something he of all people knew wasn't good.

He recalled the instance when, as a 7-year-old, he'd seen one of the bigger kids getting his limbs torn apart by a Super Mutant down by Murder Pass; how he'd ended up back in his bunkbed somehow, but all he could see was dangling, pulpy fibers and bones, how all he could hear were screams and the popping of tendons and sockets; how months later, he'd felt nothing and often fell into an empty corner of consciousness, hiding in the dark and quiet, and how he'd never been sure whether he liked it there or not.

Maybe she'd found her own corner where she could breathe. Or maybe she was cowering in it against the weight of the Commonwealth, against the bone-crushing pressure of having to claw her way through her pain in the name of the closure she might not ever receive; in which case, it was no longer a refuge, but a death trap.

He placed the steel jack from his pocket firmly in her hand. Recognition dawned in her eyes like rays of sunshine peeking through the twilight fog.

“I never did teach you how to play, did I?” she asked with a rueful curl of the lips, much to his relief.

“Nah, boss. You didn't.”

It was a fairly simple game, from what she explained—throw the jacks in front of you, bounce the rubber ball, pick one up, continue catching the ball whenever it bounced, pick the rest with each bone, one at a time—although, if he were being honest with himself, he was far more enthralled with the peals of laughter racking through her body whenever she missed, the way she leaned her head on his shoulder for support, the way her springy coils brushed against his neck, how her teeth flashed all pearl-like behind her pillowy-soft lips. A throaty chuckle rumbled in his chest as he watched her for a while, imagining the barefoot curly-haired little girl in the holo and what she would have been like had she lived with him back in Little Lamplight, instead; how her infectious giggles would have echoed through the caverns if she ran after him during a game of tag. He would bet a hundred caps she would have been good at hide-and-seek. Probably would have the type to tuck herself under the stairs for hours. Would she have been one of the kids that claimed to be friends, only to leave him behind? Would she have waited for him on the outside?

Things could have been so simple for both of them.

Things seldom were.

“You alright?” she murmured, looking up through her dark lashes, head on his shoulder.

She could have been the one: the first clumsy kiss under the clubhouse stairs, the awkward grope under the clothes, the heat of discovery between two novice bodies, the warmth of comfort wrapping him up like a comforter at the end of the day; all-accepting, all-embracing, the solace of a lock sealing all his secrets—dirty, precious, embarrassing, fragile, painful, beautiful. Knowing she'd keep every single one of them and treasure them equally.

When he realized he'd been staring, heat crept up his neck in vines and blossomed over his cheekbones and the tips of his ears.

Instead of making fun of him as he expected her to, she offered him a reassuring smile. And like the pull of a magnet, he was drawn to her lips, brushing so gently against them like she'd break under his barbarous touch, awash with relief when she relaxed against him and he felt her sigh, felt her fingernails softly raking through his hair. His heart was threatening to burst like overripe fruit, to rip out through his ribcage.

Just as his tongue sought the silky underside of hers, the hand in his hair pressed back against his shoulder, their foreheads and noses touching, heavy breaths mingling. But rather than seeing the full-blown lust buzzing around him like an electrical charge mirrored at him, there was the hesitation of eyes averted; and while (in his mind) she was savoring the taste of him on her lips, on her tongue, there was something else, something solid and weighty and unpleasantly rough and wordless.

“This is wrong,” she finally said.

His heart sank. “Why?”

She huffed wryly and pulled her heat, her comfort away from him. “Where do I even start?” But no matter how many times she parted her lips or took a deep breath, it seemed to be lodged there, pressing and uncomfortable like something stubborn wedged between her teeth, and no amount of pulling and picking would get it out.

“Is it because of Nate?” He would understand that, at least. Grieving, he had learned, was messy, and it ebbed and flowed unpredictably. MacCready couldn't say he was over Lucy—he might never be—but there was a space in his heart that cried out to be filled, a part of his soul yearning to move on.

Julia laughed, a sardonic scoff. “It should be, shouldn't it?” He heard her sigh, heavy and disappointed—whether that was with him or herself was unclear. “But, no. I...” She nibbled at the dry skin around her cuticles. “It's nothing. Forget it.” Picking and picking and picking.

“It's -obviously something,” he said and took her wrist away from her mouth, to stroke it with his thumb. “Can't be any worse than anything else you've told me, can it?”

She shook her head, gaze low, and her throat bobbed. “RJ, you know who I am. I hurt Duncan. Why are you doing this?” Her voice was soft, unsteady.

Why _was_ he doing this? Sure, the pressure in his loins was urging him to find relief, but he could easily do it himself, or with several others in Goodneighbor. Hell, he could go to the Memory Den and relieve some of the hottest things he and Lucy had done together. Yet, here he was, eager to savor the woman who'd caused his family so much pain. What was wrong with him?

Julia had done so much harm, so much good and she tore at the seams of his logic. There was no rhyme or reason, only existence. Only radical acceptance.

“Yeah,” he replied in a low voice. “I remember.”

“I can't...” She sank her head into her hands like she couldn't bear to look him in the eye. “Even if you could—I don't deserve your forgiveness. Don't forgive me, Mac. Don't forgive me. Otherwise...”

Had he forgiven her? Duncan's cries, while they no longer presented as a specter in the corners of his nightmares, still lingered like whispers at the back of his neck. The anger was a slow, steady simmer, barely bubbling, and yet still present. That Julia had anything to do with this felt like a bruised-over stab wound between his ribs (though it could have been the literal stab from Winlock's patsies earlier). A dull ache, nowhere near as sharp as it was on impact. But still there.

But he could see her. All of her. Imperfections and virtues and the quirks of hers that made his stomach flutter giddily, and the knowledge that she'd stick with him.

“Otherwise, what?”

Her expression shattered and she breathed a loud, shaky sob when he brought her close. Her arms flailed to get away for a moment before she fell still against his chest and cried, and cried, and cried. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know. I'm so sorry.”

What could he say? He wasn't at the point of absolution. Not yet. What she had done, the consequences it had brought on his family... None of that was okay, nor would it ever be, regardless of whether it was accidental. _The only true repentance is changed behavior, _she'd once said. Had she? She'd been honest with him since then, and without her help, Duncan would have still been sick... A lot of people would have been worse off without her.

So, how did he feel?

Torn. He was torn.

“I know,” he said, even through the ache in his chest. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this still qualify as a "slow burn?" ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
